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ssa-dado · 4 months ago

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Annoyingly Yours - SOS

Aaron Hotchner x fem!bau!reader Genre: fluff, angst though it's more like ♫ LOATHING, UNADULTERATED LOATHING ♫ Summary: At 33, Aaron Hotchner prides himself on discipline and control... until you become his deskmate. With quirks that seem to clash against his precision, you’re nothing short of maddening. Even your breathing seems to provoke a visceral reaction in him... surely out of frustration, right? Not out of... attraction?! Warnings: None, just wanted to clarify the story is set in 1998, before Hotch became Unit Chief (Gideon and Rossi were charge instead). Word Count: 4.4k Dado's Corner: Based on this ask sent by the loml @c-losur3. Made a few tweaks because I can. And because I’m evil. Enter Aaron “convinces himself he hates you while secretly nursing a big fat crush” Hotchner. A timeless classic. Hope you like it.

masterlist

“People demand freedom of speech as a compensation for the freedom of thought which they seldom use.” - Søren Kierkegaard

Written in blue gel ink on a neon pink sticky note, it sat smugly atop the pristine case file Hotch had spent hours perfecting the night before.

No signature, no admission of guilt.

Just a bright, audacious square of defiance left to mock him.

In all his years as a profiler, he’d never encountered a case this easy to solve. Hell, he wished his active investigations were even half as simple as this. Because only after approximately half a second of analysis, the profile of the Unsub was crystal clear:

Female. Early 20s. A twisted sense of humor. A fascination with philosophy, particularly the existential, though occasionally dabbling in absurdism. Works in law enforcement - specifically, the BAU. Only writes in blue ink because she needs her words to stand out as much as her personality does. Likely has a compulsive habit of arriving to work early but never early enough to beat him to the office.

And there she was, the Unsub, strolling through the entrance just as the clock struck 6:01.

“Good morning, Hotch,” you said without even glancing in his direction, as if you somehow sensed his irritation wafting across the bullpen.

You were the Unsub.

His polyglot, sarcastic, sticky-note-vandalizing deskmate.

Case closed.

“Why did you leave me this?” he scoffed as his fingers carefully peeled back the neon pink square from the folder.

The glue resisted just enough to be infuriating, threatening to leave a smear on what he privately considered his masterpiece - a report so cleanly written that it might one day serve as the gold standard for FBI rookies.

And now, his file, had been vandalized.

It bore your mark.

“Educational purposes,” you said airily, as you dropped into your chair facing his own, a complete lack of regard for the disruption you caused just by existing in his vicinity.

He despised it.

That your desk had to face his, ensuring that every time he so much as lifted his gaze, he was met with the perpetual source of his unease, was nothing short of torture.

Why couldn’t you be like his last deskmate? That moron at least had the decency to leave him alone unless absolutely necessary.

The most small talk he’d ever inflicted was the occasional, self-congratulatory monologue about whatever barely-legal college girl he’d managed to con into bed last Friday night with the oh-so-irresistible revelation that he was FBI.

At least after spewing his bullshit, the guy would shut up and return to his self-inflicted misery, no doubt haunted by the limitations of his pitifully small brain.

You, instead, were far too smart - too sharp for your own good, really - but still your humor was as broken as his own. You had the same, if not more, level of drive. And for some inexplicable reason, you shared his obsession with arriving early.

It was maddening.

It was his thing - his small act of rebellion against a world that had always expected more from him than he could give.

His hours of solitude before the office filled with noise, before the madness and the demands of others hijacked his peace. Those few precious hours were his escape, his refuge, where he could think, where he could breathe.

But no, you had to show up too. Every damn morning.

“Educational purposes?” He echoed flatly, regretting, for the hundredth time, that he ever encouraged you to speak before his second cup of coffee.

“Yes, Hotch. I’ve never seen you use a sticky note,” you retorted, as if your reasoning were completely rational and not mildly absurd. “So, naturally, I assumed you didn’t know they existed. Thought I’d be kind of me to introduce you to the concept.”

“You’re hilarious,” he deadpanned, the sarcasm sliding off his tongue with a sharpness that matched the ache now forming at his temples. “I know what sticky notes are. I don’t use them because they’re impractical. They always leave glue residue, it’s annoying.”

Since for some reasons he felt the need to emphasize his point, he held up his sacred notebook - a worn, leather-bound treasure he treated like an extension of himself. “That’s why we have these. To take proper notes. Like agents. Not middle schoolers.”

But you didn’t even flinch.

Instead, you leaned back in your chair, the movement slow and casual, yet just enough to make him irrationally nervous that you might tip over. “They don’t leave residue if you close the case fast enough. The glue won’t have time to dry. But I guess if it takes you ages to solve something, that’s not really the sticky note’s fault, is it? Sounds more like a problem with the agent.”

His jaw locked so tightly it was a wonder his teeth didn’t crack.

The nerve of you.

He hated how his body betrayed him like this, the faintest tingle at the back of his neck, the way his pulse faltered and then stuttered, because his decision to remain silent didn’t let his voice do the stammering instead.

Oh, he wanted to argue.

Desperately.

To lay out an irrefutable case demonstrating, that the fault lay not in the man who would undoubtedly climb the FBI ranks faster than anyone dared imagine but in the cheap adhesive some factory somewhere had slapped onto your stupid pack of hot pink sticky notes.

And all he wanted, absurdly, was to prove you wrong.

Not just wrong. Spectacularly wrong.

But instead of offering a retort worthy of his reputation, he exhaled sharply, forcing his jaw to unclench.

He leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes locking onto yours, narrowing into the kind of look that could silence seasoned agents, suspects, and even Gideon when necessary.

Yet somehow, it had no discernible effect on the 21-year-old profiler sitting across from him - the one who’d been in the BAU for barely three weeks and already seemed impervious to his most withering glares.

As if in response to his futile attempt at dominance, your smirk widened, as though you could hear the unspoken debate raging in his head. Worse, it looked like you were enjoying the fact that you’d managed to rattle him.

And God help him, he felt rattled.

“How many of those sticky notes do you have?” he finally asked.

Your response was almost immediate.

“As many as you need,” you said as you pulled open your top-right drawer – the drawer that had come to symbolize everything he couldn’t categorize about you.

It housed your so-called “essentials”: pencils, a collection of elastic bands you had an infuriating habit of launching at him when the mood struck, and the same six markers in various states of decay - probably relics from your high school days. There was a stapler in there too - one he had to admit, with no small amount of shame, he borrowed from time to time.

But then there were the other items. The ones his categorically organized brain couldn’t quite justify sharing space with stationary essentials.

A box of tea - the kind of black tea with a scent so strong it practically sucker-punched him from across the desk every time you brewed it, chocolate bars that mysteriously appeared and vanished like contraband…

…and, as it turned out, the dreaded sticky notes.

They were hidden beneath the tea box, of course - because why not force him to think about the assault on his nostrils that would begin precisely three hours and twenty-seven minutes from now?

You lifted the box, revealing the fluorescent pink squares of doom, a shade so bright it only made the pain going on in his head since the first moment you opened your mouth today even worse.

“I only have hot pink, though,” you announced, holding the sticky notes up.

“…And?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “Am I not allowed to use hot pink? Do you have a problem with that?”

“On the contrary,” you said, your lips curling into that infuriating smirk again. “I’m impressed. I thought you’d whine about a color demasculating your sacred reports.”

He felt his pulse thrum in his ears at that.

He almost - almost - wanted to tell you that you were looking at a man currently wearing pink socks under his neatly pressed slacks. A pair that had, unfortunately, turned pink during his first solo attempt at laundry in college and had somehow managed to stay in his rotation all these years, as a reminder that even the best could make mistakes.

But he didn’t.

Not because he was embarrassed - he wasn’t - but because he knew you’d twist it into something else entirely, another jab, another laugh at his expense.

And the last thing he needed right now was more of this.

Whatever this was.

Instead, he picked up the hot pink sticky notes, tapping them against his palm. “I’ll take them, we’ll see if it’s really the agent’s fault."

By mid-morning, to his reluctant surprise, the sticky notes had become one of his favorite tools - not just for their undeniable practicality but because they gave him the perfect weapon to deliver a dose of your own medicine.

And you deserved it. Absolutely, unequivocally deserved it.

After all, it wasn’t him launching elastic bands at his deskmate with sniper-like precision at ungodly hours, the faint thwack cutting through the quiet bullpen as the band landed squarely in his lap, while he was clearly trying to work. This, from the same person who’d managed to fail their firearm certification twice

It wasn’t him leaning subtly - though not subtly enough - to sneak a peek at his case files because your own workload wasn’t challenging enough to hold your attention. Still too new to the team, you’d only been sent into the field once, a prisoner of the bullpen and endless paperwork. Yet, despite the monotony, you remained undeterred, tirelessly determined to prove your worth at every possible turn.

And it certainly wasn’t him disrupting the flow of the day by asking if his coffee needed refilling when he was clearly already immersed in work, only to return moments later with an extra steaming cup - and a piece of chocolate from that drawer - placing it without a word on his desk like it wasn’t an unnecessary intrusion. Because you were just kind like that.

It wasn’t him rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, the fabric bunching unevenly around his elbows - a motion so predictable it had practically become your tell when you were wrestling with a puzzle more stubborn than the agent that solving it.

Nor was it how your forearms inevitably transformed into impressionist paintings of smudged blue ink, the accidental artwork often bleeding onto the cuffs of your shirt, leaving the unfortunate soul seated across from you utterly derailed from whatever he’d been about to jot down, unable to look away.

It wasn’t him who dressed like that.

Had a brain like that.

A voice like that.

A face like that.

No.

It wasn’t him. It was you. And that was the problem.

Because for all his irritation, for all his carefully constructed disdain, he couldn’t stop noticing. Couldn't stop looking. Couldn't stop… what exactly?

…Right.

Couldn’t stop scribbling down his meticulously crafted revenge, which he would plant squarely on your desk the moment you wandered off to refill your coffee.

“We are all born ignorant, but one must work hard to remain stupid.” – Benjamin Franklin

Thought you might enjoy something to ponder while you’re busy ignoring the typo you made on page 7, line 15 of your report.– A.H.

He placed the sticky note precisely in the center of your desk, ensuring it was impossible to miss. Satisfied, he returned to his seat, feigning an air of indifference as he watched you from the corner of his eye.

It didn’t take long.

He didn’t look up when you arrived, but he heard it - the subtle shift in your breathing, the gasp as your eyes widened. The pages of your report rustled as you flipped through them, and the sharp exhale that followed told him you’d found it.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, more to yourself than him.

Never had a sound been so soothing to his ears.

And yet - he should have known better.

He barely had time to blink before the loud thud of your hand slamming onto his desk jolted him upright. He looked up to find you standing over him, your eyes gleaming with a smugness so infuriating it made him want to wipe it off your face.

His gaze darted down to the sticky note you’d slapped in front of him, and -

Oh.

Hotch stared at it. Then stared some more.

There, in all its crude glory, was what could only be described as a "creative interpretation" of a very specific part of the male anatomy, staring back at him from the bright pink square.

“The proportions are all wrong.” He deadpanned.

And then you, with all your infuriating composure, leaned on his desk.

Close. Too close.

"Oh, I’m sorry, Agent Hotchner," you said, raising a brow. "If you want it anatomically correct, maybe next time you should hand me a reference photo."

His brain short-circuited.

For a horrifying moment, he couldn’t think of a single word, but only at the implication of what you said… you couldn’t mean that… right?!

“Not yours!” you blurted out, your hands flailing in a frantic attempt to erase the moment. “I didn’t mean- I wasn’t asking for- I just-”

"And I certainly wouldn’t-" he cut in, his own voice breaking due to the sudden clumsiness of his own tongue.

But the damage was done.

Your cheeks turned the same vivid shade as the neon pink sticky note still plastered defiantly on his desk. He felt his own face burning, and the back of his neck prickled uncomfortably, like his own body was actively rebelling against him.

Both of you were way too stunned to say anything that wouldn’t somehow make it worse.

Hotch’s mind raced for a way to defuse the situation, but every possible response felt like it would either escalate the embarrassment or reveal… something he wasn’t ready to confront.

And then, mercifully - or perhaps not - your survival instincts kicked in.

“I’ll just… uh… get more coffee,” you muttered, backing away from his desk like it might physically combust if you stayed a moment longer. You turned on your heel, clearly aiming to escape the bullpen as fast as humanly possible. “Do you want some?”

He blinked, thrown off by the question. “Yes, thanks. Black,” he replied automatically, his voice still a little stiff.

As soon as you were out of sight, he allowed himself to crumble. His left hand dragged across his face, fingers pressing against his temples as if they could massage the ridiculousness of it all out of his brain.

Stupid. The whole thing was so stupid.

A slip of the tongue, a misstep, blown completely out of proportion.

And yet, here he was, sitting at his desk, undone by a pink sticky note and a fleeting moment of awkwardness.

With a low, frustrated groan, he let his hand drop, hitting his forehead against the heel of his palm in a futile attempt to snap himself out of it.

Focus. He needed to focus.

He stared down at the open case file in front of him, its neatly typed words mocking him with their clarity.

He knew they were legible - he’d written them himself.

But right now, the letters blurred into meaningless smudges on the page, overridden by a far more vivid image - your face.

Flushed. Wide-eyed. Flustered.

This was ridiculous. He was ridiculous.

Just a joke, he reminded himself. Just a stupid, ill-timed joke.

And yet his chest still felt tight, his pulse erratic, like he’d run up the stairs two steps at a time.

His gaze flicked to the sticky note still sitting on the edge of his desk, as bright and offensive as the moment it had first been slapped down in front of him. Without thinking, he grabbed it, crumpling it in his fist.

There. Problem solved. Gone. Out of sight, out of mind.

He could move on.

But then his hand stilled, his grip loosening as he stared at the crumpled ball of paper.

His pulse still raced, his mind still spiraled, and all because of… this.

A rational man would throw it away. Rip it into pieces, toss it into the trash, and let it become a fleeting, forgotten memory.

He should throw it away. He would throw it away. Any second now.

But his hand didn’t move.

Instead, and against every shred of common sense he prided himself on, Hotch smoothed the crumpled edges as best he could and opened his desk drawer, tucking it far into the back, behind a few other things he pretended not to care about but couldn’t quite get rid of.

Hidden away, out of sight.

Safe.

From what? From you? From himself? He didn’t have the answer, and he didn’t dare linger on the questions.

Instead, he closed the drawer with more force than necessary, ignoring the faint tremor in his hand - but even as he turned his attention to the files in front of him, the pink still lingered in his periphery, an afterimage burned into his mind.

Of your flustered face.

Adorable.

So adorable that, over time, that sticky note became far from the only item inhabiting that drawer.

Aaron Hotchner - the very man who had once scoffed at your so-called “miscellaneous essentials” drawer - now secretly had one of his own.

A collection of odd, seemingly random things: items you had given him, thrown at him in moments of boredom, or those ridiculous little tokens you’d started exchanging lately that blurred the line between teasing and genuine thoughtfulness.

Because that’s what deskmates did, right?

They shared. They joked. They exchanged these odd little tokens of camaraderie that somehow made the job less crushing.

Except this felt like something more.

Maybe you were more than deskmates. Maybe even… friends?

And he wasn’t the only one who noticed.

Gideon, had been starting to observe the two of you like he was profiling a particularly complex unsub, his sharp, knowing glances making Hotch feel like a bug under a magnifying glass.

Then there was Rossi, who took an almost perverse delight in making his observations less subtle. "Synergy," he'd say with a pointed smirk, the kind that made Hotch’s jaw tighten. "It’s a rare thing, you know, finding compatibility like this. Magic, really."

They saw something. Something neither of you was ready to admit.

And ominously - no, deliberately - they decided to exploit it.

Because that’s what bosses did.

The BAU was chronically understaffed, perpetually fighting against the outdated perception that profiling was glorified guesswork. The pay wasn’t anything to write home about, either. Most cases were worked from behind desks, saving the budget for the bigger field assignments.

But what the BAU lacked in glamour, it tried to make up for in partnerships - teams so seamlessly synchronized they became the backbone of the unit.

Apparently, you and Hotch had become one of those teams.

What had started as two distinct desks - two well-defined territories with clear boundaries - had slowly morphed into one chaotic shared space.

A 5’x5’ no-man’s-land where it was impossible to tell where your workspace ended, and his began.

Like now.

The oversized map of your current case sprawled across the desk, forcing you both into closer proximity than either of you would normally allow.

You were perched on his side of the desk, tracing potential paths and patterns, completely absorbed in piecing together the unsub’s geographical profile.

He told himself he was focused. Jotting down victim locations. Marking points on the map with little red magnets.

Totally immersed in the task at hand.

Except he wasn’t.

Because the occasional brush of your arm against his felt electrifying in a way it had no right to be.

Because your voice, low and steady as you murmured your observations, felt less like background noise and more like the only sound in the room.

And yet, this closeness, this seamless partnership, felt natural.

Effortless.

Distracting as hell.

So distracting that by the time he placed the last magnet, he realized he’d miscounted. One victim left, and no magnet to place them.

“Hotch,” you said softly, your eyes scanning the map, “It looks like we might’ve missed a pin for Daniel Hardman.”

How diplomatic of you.

How unnecessarily kind, considering it was entirely his fault.

He’d miscounted the magnets - a mistake caused by a momentary lapse in focus when, mid-count, you casually asked him if he wanted to go watch the first Star Wars prequel with you next year.

It wasn’t just the advance planning that sent his mind reeling - though the thought of you penciling him into your future like that was disarming enough - it was the fact that you remembered he liked Star Wars.

A detail you had no business remembering, and yet, somehow, you did.

“Yes, sorry. There are more in my drawer,” he said, standing quickly to fetch them himself. But before he could stop you, you were already at the drawer, pulling it open.

“It’s the second one-” The words barely left his mouth before he heard the gasp.

“…from the top,” he finished weakly, already knowing what you’d seen.

There they were. Your tokens. In his drawer. Staring right at you.

The gun casing from the bullet you’d proudly handed him after finally earning your firearm certification on your third attempt. You’d declared, almost giddy, that you’d never be a burden to him again, and maybe it was his lessons, you’d added shyly, that had helped you finally overcome it. He wasn’t sure what had struck him more: the pride in your voice or the fact that you’d thought of him at all.

A framed solo photograph of the two of you from that year’s Thanksgiving spent stuck in the bullpen, drowning in case files while Rossi and Gideon insisted on a makeshift dinner with takeout. You hadn’t hesitated for a second, throwing an arm around him for the picture and leaning into him like it was the most natural thing in the world. For you, maybe it had been. For him, it had been anything but.

Every single elastic band you’d launched at him -143, though he’d never admit to counting.

A single stray hair tie - the one you’d used to tie his hair into a ridiculous fountain one day when his fringe had gotten so long it kept falling into his face. He’d left it like that the rest of the day, silently cursing himself for how much he didn’t hate it.

An unopened pack of hot pink sticky notes, the only color he now allowed himself to buy, though he’d never admit why.

And, of course, every sticky note you’d ever left him, arranged in chronological order - except for one.

The “caricature,” the crude drawing that had started his ridiculous collection. That particular sticky note hadn’t stayed long in the drawer. Somehow, it had made its way home with him, “inexplicably” framed and placed on his bedside table.

It now sat next to his alarm clock, the two most irritating objects in his life.

Both constant reminders of things he couldn’t seem to escape - one for its relentless insistence on dragging him out of bed every morning, and the other for how it made him feel every time he looked at it.

And now here you were, looking up from the drawer, eyes wide. “Hotch…”

He tensed, his pulse quickening with each step you took toward him… what were you doing?

Without a word, you opened your drawer—the infamous "essentials" drawer he thought he knew like the back of his hand.

Except this time, its contents had changed.

Because right on top, perched like a cherished keepsake, was a photo he hadn’t known existed.

Another one from that Thanksgiving night.

The one photo taken moments later, when you’d decided, in your infinite ability to wreak havoc, to joke about “capturing a moment” and had wrapped your arms around his head, holding him still as you planted a kiss on his cheek.

His expression in the photo was pure indignation, eyebrows furrowed in protest - though it also captured the deep rouge spreading across his cheeks.

“This one is my favorite,” you said, laughing as you held it up for him to see. “You’re so red in it, it’s hilarious.”

He stared at the photo, feeling the telltale warmth creeping up his neck, threatening to betray him all over again. His ears burned as he managed to mutter, “Never been kissed by a woman before.”

The words hung in the air for a beat too long.

You blinked, your laughter abruptly halting as your mouth fell open in shock. “Wait, seriously? Are you-?”

He sighed, cutting you off before your pity or disbelief could spiral out of control. “I was joking,” he said, voice flat and utterly deadpan. “I’ve been kissed by women. Multiple.”

You burst into laughter again, this time doubling over. “Oh my God! Why did you say it like that? Multiple! Hotch,” you said, gasping for air between giggles, “you’re killing me.”

“No,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he turned back to the map in front of him. “You’re killing me.”

You didn’t hear him, thank God - or if you did, you gave no sign. He wasn’t sure which would have been worse.

A moment later, you were back at his side of the desk, the missing red magnet in your hand. You held it out to him, your smile still warm, still lingering. “For the record,” you said, your voice softer now, “I think it’s kind of sweet. That you framed it, I mean.”

His hand hesitated as he reached for the magnet, his fingers hovering just over yours. Something so simple suddenly felt unbearably complicated.

Delicate.

He couldn’t seem to figure out how to take the magnet without brushing against your skin - not that he didn’t want to.

He just wasn’t sure if he should.

“It’s a good photo,” he said at last, his voice quieter than usual, his eyes flickering up to meet yours briefly before darting back to the map.

Safe. Neutral.

But you didn’t retreat.

If anything, your smile only grew.

“Yes,” you said, voice just as quiet. “It is.”

---

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @hayleym1234 ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mxblobby ; @oxforce ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softestqueeen ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24

#aaron hotchner #hotch #symposiumff #aaron hotchner x reader #hotch x reader #aaron hotch x reader #criminal minds

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acciojaeyun · 5 months ago

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let me hold you close | p.sh.

PAIRING. rich!sunghoon x fem!reader

SUMMARY. you and sunghoon are both off-limits. you're still living with your ex, and he's off to get married to someone that has been arranged for his family business. but that doesn't stop you both from trudging boundaries when it's just you and him in your own world.

CONTENTS. smut, some angst, some fluff. LOTS OF JEALOUSY. smut with plot. not beta-read. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

WARNINGS. lots and lots of jealousy. sunghoon is DOWN-BAD for reader, but the feeling’s mutual. indirect cheating (but not really???). semi-public sex, dom!sunghoon, bratty reader. somewhat mean hoonie. oral (both f and m receiving), p in v, unprotected sexual act (use protection at all times), temperature play, sensory deprivation, slight bondage (just tying up), sir kink (oh yeah baby), spitting kink. use of pet names (wiee). THREE SEX SCENES. (seldom mentions of hyung line: heeseung, jay, and jake) IDK I WROTE THIS BEFORE I COULD FULLY WRITE EVERYTHING.

WORD COUNT. 4.7k

AUTHOR'S NOTE. FINALLY IT'S HERE. belated happy birthday, my hoonhoon! this is my hoon birthday gift for y'all. hope you like it! (did i write two sunghoon smuts already? yes, yes i did.) also, wait for further updates, i might be updating anyone from the hyung line soon! wink wink.

MY LIBRARY. REQUESTS ARE OPEN! TO BE ADDED TO MY TAGLIST, YOU CAN SEND ME A MESSAGE.

There was something about him.

Park Sunghoon was the image of something so mysterious – yet, so captivating. His eyes held something deeper than what he tries to convey. You tried to hard to look away, but his actions, his stance – they command attention.

So much, that they commanded yours.

He has been a constant, a regular at the bar that you're working in every weekend to make ends meet. He was the hot bachelor that belonged in the upper VIPs that usually had a secluded room where they could share small talk over top shelf drinks.

Your first encounter with Park Sunghoon was when Byeol called in sick, and that meant you took over her shift as the personal-hired entertainer at Room 130.

"Please, Y/N," Byeol pleaded through the phone, coughing as her voice scratched against her throat, "if I could, I would. I'll take over your shift for the next week. You'll have my pay for tonight."

Now, additional income is something that is very difficult to shake off, no matter how it takes a night that consists of Neoguri noodles off of your schedule.

You wore your signature red cocktail dress, one that hugs all your right proportions beautifully, but not too tight, with a slit that doesn't go too up high on your thigh. Matched with a wave that's swept to the side, it is a no-brainer that the four men of Room 130 didn't even ask where their usual entertainer, Byeol, is.

"What a pretty face," Jake comments as he takes a sip of his armagnac, his eyes travelled down to your legs, but went back to your face, "nice voice, too." He adds.

Sunghoon was late, muttering an excuse that was along the lines of: his mother made him stay for a supposed meet-up with someone.

"Mommy's still on it?" Heeseung jokes, grabbing some of the snacks on the table, shaking his hand to remove the residue of it before pouring it to his mouth.

Sunghoon sends a look over Heeseung's way, making the oldest boy chuckle, "Well, you have to follow mommy's orders, or else, you're gonna whine about how your daily allowance has been reduced to half."

The rest of the boys chuckled, alongside the girls that were in the room to hold them company. Sunghoon was not the most pleased, he knew that Heeseung is right. He has to find a lady or else he will be arranged to a wedding just to keep up his expenditures and his lifestyle.

"Who's the girl?" Jay asks as he places his hand on the small of the back of the lady that sat on his lap, his eyes on the girl that giggled as she kept on tracing the edge of Jay's jawline.

"I don't know," Sunghoon grunted, eager to down a shot that was already on the table, "all I know is I have to find a partner ASAP, or else, I'll be wed to someone I could care less about."

That was when his eyes landed on you, singing a song softly as you held your vintage microphone. His eyebrows perched up slightly, and he smiled to himself.

Now, it has been approximately the fifth consecutive week that Sunghoon had tried to talk to you, alone, on your supposed shift at the public part of the bar.

Sweeping past through sweaty bodies as well as people that are drunk off their minds, Sunghoon was determined to at least know you better. It only took one song and one damn dress to catch Sunghoon's attention.

Lucky for him, he had caught your attention, too.

The thing was, you had a boyfriend – well, a roommate, if you will. Since love was obviously out the window, and that you were trying to sustain each other's stay in your apartment that has its contract nearing its end by the end of December.

Well, another reason was that your then-boyfriend was still trying to win you back.

And while you're certain that you're over him and is keeping him at bay for benefits, he certainly was not, and it somehow was making you guilty that you're somehow leading him on even when it was Sunghoon's face that you think of whenever you press your bullet vibrator against your clit, leaving out broken, breathy moans that underestimated how much you think you're going to moan for Sunghoon if time permits you.

Which brings you to here, a never-ending cat and mouse game that you have established with Sunghoon, who clearly was so head-over-heels for you.

The ordeal was simple: you, one of the bar's beloved entertainers, would finish a song that you sing and dedicate for Sunghoon, but wander off with a smile as you try and find yourself a suitable man vying for your attention. It was effective for you to make him jealous and demand your attention on him for the next hours.

Sunghoon had never gone past the eating only the third base, and Sunghoon was more than willing to eat your pussy on hours end. And you were willing to let him go past that, if only you haven't seen the ring that adorned his left hand, snug tight around his ring finger.

It was a stark reminder of how he was not for you, just how you are starting to become his.

"You sing here often?"

"I do," You'd giggle to whoever this guy's name is, you really didn't know, nor even tried remembering. You were sure it wasn't his name that you'll be screaming in the bathroom stalls of the bar.

"I should bo-"

"Then I'd want to book you, privately," Sunghoon cut the guy off, his voice reeking of jealousy and authority as he stood behind you, your back flushed against his chest.

"Ya," the boy raised his voice and poked Sunghoon's blue sweater tank top, "do you mind? We're talking here."

"And I'm talking to her, as well," Sunghoon responded, his eyes crinkling into amusement, "do you not want to talk to me, baby?" He pouts at you, nuzzling his chin to your neck as he leaves light kisses on it, making you gasp.

"I.." You trail off, biting your lip as your eyes moved back and forth between the guy and Sunghoon.

"I'm not wasting my time on this," the guy raised his hands in defeat, backing away, leaving you with the guy that you have tried to flirt indirectly through the night.

"Fancy seeing you here against sweaty bodies," You giggle as you turn around and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down teasingly to have his lips over yours, to which Sunghoon growled and pushed his lips on yours, immediately pushing his tongue inside your mouth as his hands dug on the curves of your waist.

"You drive me so fucking crazy," he whispers to your lips, in which you hum as a response. Not a long while after, you're being guided to one of the restrooms, his lips now attacking your neck to leave noticeable bruises that you're trying to cover up before you go to your morning shift at the local library of your town.

He pushes you to an empty restroom, not minding to lock it as he cages you in between his body and the sink. “Are you having fun?” He suddenly asks as he pools your dress up your hips and starts rubbing you through your wet panties, “Playing with me, are you having fun?”

You looked at him through lidded eyes and nod, “I do,” you say as you bite your lip, spreading your legs wide, “I like it when you’re so crazy for me.”

He grunts and kneels down, pulling your panties down as his nose is immediately wafted off by the smell of your arousal spreading throughout your core, “So wet for me, the guy did that to you?” He spoke as his thumb pressed on your bare clit, making you shudder.

“N-no,” you squeaked out, holding on the sink behind you, “it has always been you.”

“Always been me?” Sunghoon chuckles as he blows air to your sensitive cunt, “I don’t know, babe, I’m starting not to believe it given how many times I’ve practically pulled you off against men who are thirsting over you.”

Not leaving you any moment to respond, Sunghoon attaches his lips to your sensitive nub, moaning at your familiar taste that he had been obsessed with.

Moaning his name, you immediately hold on his hair, tightening your grip on his soft, brown-black hair, to which Sunghoon tuts as he pulls away, his thumb replacing his lips as he presses and rubs circles on your clit, “You don’t get to touch me, princess.”

Grasping your wrist, Sunghoon had practically forced your hand off his hair, placing it on the sink behind you to continue his ministrations on your pussy.

“Love this pussy so much,” he breathes out, poking his tongue out to fuck your hole with, “so pretty, could get in this forever.”

You moaned in response, desperate to cum just by Sunghoon’s fingers alone. Instinctively, your hands went to play with your breasts, pulling your dress straps down to pool on your arms, you bit your lip as you pinched and flicked your nipples, mimicking the way Sunghoon does it when he was mouthing your tits instead of your pussy.

Sunghoon looked up at you and smirked, sneaking in a hand between your legs to spread your labia apart, forcing his tongue deeper into you as he shook his head sideways, nose prodding against your clit, mouth leaving out noises, making sure that anyone could walk in the unlocked restroom and catch you both in such sinful act.

With buckled knees, you started to grind on his tongue, your mind dancing on the quick release that you felt was bubbling at the pits of your stomach, “Y-you eat pussy so fucking good.”

“That’s where I’m best at, babe,” Sunghoon winks at you, pushing his middle finger inside you after tracing your hole with it, “and can you blame me? Your pussy tastes like heaven.”

“O-oh!” You squeaked out, feeling your orgasm could come if Sunghoon continued this. And as if Sunghoon knows how to push your buttons, he adds a second finger, then a third, his tongue now dancing on your clit as he panted against your core.

“Fuck - shit, Sunghoon!” You exclaim as you push his face to your core, panting as you whine, eyes screwed shut with your other arm failing to hold on the counter, regardless of how dry the sink it may be, body convulsing as you cum on Sunghoon’s face.

Sunghoon happily licked through your folds, slurping your cum messily and noisily. He stood up with your cum glistening on his lips, his mouth sporting the smuggest grin that made you want to kiss his face silly.

“Damn,” you breathed out, leaning toward his chest to ground yourself.

“We’re not done yet.”

Needless to say, Sunghoon made sure that you could cum thrice from his fingers and mouth alone.

The following week, you were in the same position — however, instead of your hand holding on the sink, it was Sunghoon’s, with his other hand fisting your hair as he holds you still while he fucks your mouth to prove a point.

“So f-fucking warm,” Sunghoon grunted, his balls trodding against your chin as he kept on cursing, too lost in the bliss of your mouth taking him tightly, mimicking a virgin pussy.

With blood almost drawn on his lips, Sunghoon lets out a guttural groan as he pushes you against his pelvis, his penis bullying its way on your throat as strings of warm cum painted your throat.

“Should get you jealous more often,” Sunghoon comments as he regains his breathing, “such a desperate slut you become once you start reminding me whose pussy my dick belongs to.”

Before you could respond, the tall boy pushes his lips against yours hungrily, tongue immediately poking inside to start a tongued kiss with you, cupping both of your cheeks, he made sure you aren’t going anywhere.

“Thighs,” you started, too overtaken by lust, but Sunghoon heard it, he held your face with one hand to force you to look at him, “Your thighs, Sunghoon, I want to-“

“Yeah? Wanna grind on it, pretty?”

You nod, anything that could have you feeling him against your throbbing core, “Please,” you pleaded, grabbing his wrist to make you suck on his ring-clad finger, “want it, so much.”

Sunghoon almost lets out an animalistic growl as he pulls you to one of the stalls. He reaches behind you to lock it before turning around and places the seat down, sitting on it before urging you to straddle him.

Pooling your dress over your lap, you did as you were instructed. Hanging both arms around his neck, you stood up to pull your panties down, the slight string of arousal visible from the cloth.

On the other hand, Sunghoon already had his pants and boxers discarded, his angry cock lay erect against his stomach. You licked your lips and straddled him again, your legs on either side of his thighs, thigh-grinding long forgotten.

Both of you hissed as your pussy made contact with his dick, and soon enough, you were both a grinding mess, your grinds interrupted by humps as you groped your tits, your head thrown back as you continue to moan Sunghoon’s name.

“Yeah, moan that n-name, he’s y-yours, isn’t he?” Sunghoon hissed, his hair all over his face before leaning down to suck on your free boob that has been exposed from the tubing of the dress that was pulled down by you prior.

“Mhm, he’s mine!” You squealed as you hit your high just in the same time as the pale boy you’re sat on.

“Fuck,” you chuckled.

“Damn,” Sunghoon said breathlessly before kissing your lips and leaning his forehead against yours.

It was the first time he kissed you on the forehead after hooking up.

Last, last week’s hookup session with Sunghoon has all become you’ve ever thought about as you placed the books on the shelves, pausing every now and then as you daydream of it.

It has been two weeks since Sunghoon had shown up in the bar that you’re working at every weekends.

And while you hoped that he could at least sweep in to wave or send a smile your way. But Friday had gone, so has Saturday, even Sunday - no signs of Sunghoon.

His absence seemed to gnaw on you as you started to search for him during weekdays at your off-duties, but none. No sign of Sunghoon.

And you can’t even text him, since he hadn’t given his number, and you didn’t, too.

You’ve found his Instagram page, but it has never been updated apart from the photo of a golf course which he had posted four days ago. Stories didn’t also help, as he never updates his stories. DMs are off, and the only way to contact him was through e-mail.

E-mailing him had crossed your mind the moment it reached Thursday, you were so close to losing your mind that you didn’t even care whether or not to message him through his work e-mail, regardless of the possibility that anyone within the network could see it.

“That’s too much of a thought,” said a voice that startled you. Turning around, you saw the infamous Sunghoon leant agains the bookshelves, arms crossed, mouth adorning a soft smirk that you’ve grown to love.

“Please, I bet you’re thinking I’m thinking of you,” you snorted as you continued sorting the books, eyes not meeting his as his gaze challenged you.

“Well, I don’t even have to bet. I know you’re thinking of me whether you admit it or not,” Sunghoon countered.

“What an ego,” you muttered as you rolled your eyes, disappointed by his sudden absence for two weeks, even without giving you a notice as to why.

“Where are you off to, tonight?” He asked out of nowhere.

“Home, as usual.”

“My place?”

“No, what do you mean?”

“You said you were going home?”

“Since when had your place been my home?”

“Are you willing for it to be?”

“Sunghoon, what?” You furrowed your eyebrows at him, looking at him as if he had three heads in one body.

“I’m serious, stay with me.”

“Sunghoon—“

“I don’t take no for an answer.”

“Sunghoon!”

“What a noisy librarian do I have here,” Sunghoon smirked, “I like it when you’re noisy though.”

With an exasperated sigh, you pulled Sunghoon at the back of the library, “What are you doing, Park Sunghoon?”

“Full name? Ouch,” he placed a hand on his heart.

“Sunghoon,” you said through gritted teeth.

“Let’s go home,” he said instead of answering your questions, pulling you by your arm to the direction of his car that has been parked in front of the library.

Now, it was supposed to be just a talk. A negotiation between you and Sunghoon to finally end whatever it was between you both, both your heart and mind exasperated by the uncertainty that was brought about by you and him.

But here you are, biting your lip as Sunghoon kissed you on your neck, alternating between kissing, licking, and sucking, as he kept your hips pinned down by the grip of his hands on it.

“Stop moving,” he demanded, looking at you with such fire in his eyes whenever you bucked your hips up onto him.

“Need you,” you whined out, desperate to grind on him again, this time, you were hoping that it would last long and be much more comfortable than the last time that you did in the stalls.

“I know, sweetie,” Sunghoon smirked before sitting up to grab his black necktie which he had on his nightstand, “This okay?” He asked as he raised the necktie before you, insinuating a plan that he had in mind.

With a nod and a verbal agreement, Sunghoon wrapped the blindfold around your head before pulling away to see you in your totality: laid back, eyes covered by the velvet cloth of his necktie, and naked — all just for him.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” Sunghoon comments as he grabbed the cloth ropes that dangled on the edge of the headrest, grabbing it with a smirk, he hoists your arms up, making you gasp, as he tied it to the to the headboard.

He tested whether the knot was tight or just right, before peering down at you and cupping your cheeks as he leaned down to kiss on you.

Adjusting his body, Sunghoon left a trail of kisses from four face down to your nipple, before swirling his tongue around your sensitive nub. Pulling back, he grabbed the cold glass of champagne that sat on the trolley by his bed. Grabbing a small ice cube from the bucket of the bottle, he circled the ice around your nipple, earning a gasp from you.

"Cold, isn't it?" He questioned before leaning down again to give your other breast attention, and after a while, he switched places, giving you the same amount of pleasure from the cold and his warm mouth alone.

He trailed the melting ice cube down your body, making you shiver at how the cold trail was instantly replaced by his warm lips as he kissed you along the wet path of the melted ice cube.

"You and your pretty body," he whispers before grabbing another ice cube again, this time, he placed it on his tongue, letting the cold replace the warmth of his tongue.

Peering down between your legs, he crawled down until he was face near your core, making you sigh in anticipation, it was moments like this that you craved for Sunghoon to speed up his actions. It was no lie that Sunghoon ate pussy pretty good, and sometimes, you think, how good could he be when he finally has his dick inside you?

Sunghoon pokes his cold tongue against your hole, making you squeal as your legs thrashed up in surprise. He grinned as he gave kitten licks to your core, his hands pushing your legs far apart before diving into your cunt.

Moans and groans and the occasional noise from Sunghoon's licking on your core were all that could be heard in his bedroom. He kept his eyes on you, basking in your reactions before he inserted his middle and ring finger inside you, contrasting the coldness of his tongue.

"Fuck! I love your m-mouth," you whimpered out, wriggling from the overwhelming feeling that only Sunghoon had managed to get out from you.

"Always f-fucking my pussy with that m-mouth so, g-good - Sunghoon!" you exclaimed as you came on his mouth without warning, Sunghoon humming as he licked through your folds, mimicking the noise of that a happy man.

He straightened up and freed his aching cock from the restraints of his trousers and boxers, hissing as his dick slapped against his stomach before hovering over you again to tip your chin up for a messy kiss.

Sunghoon licked into your mouth before prodding it open so he could spit into it, "Swallow," was all he said before you closed your mouth and opened it in front of him to show him that you did what was told.

The boy groans as he places his dick in between your folds, setting his pace as he starts from something that's agonizingly slow, drawing out a pained whimper from you.

"Hoonie, want your cock."

"Yeah?" he breathed out, picking up his pace, "you already have it been your legs, pretty."

"No," you shook your head, "want it."

"Want it, where?" he starts to slow down without much thought as he dawns realization to what you said.

"Cock, Hoonie, w-want it inside me."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, fuck! Please, hurry!" you pleaded, hands pulling against your restraints, "Want it inside me, Hoonie, please!"

"Condoms?"

"No, raw."

"Baby–"

"Please!"

One beg from you and Sunghoon's heartbeat has already picked up. Before you both even started seeing each other to hook up, you have already established that the farthest you could go with each other is oral. Other than that is off the table, as you have said, you both are completely off-limits.

Sunghoon's chest warmed at the thought of you warming up to him, "Okay, baby," he breathed out, "are you sure?"

"I am," you whined.

He leaned over and removed your blindfold and restraints, letting you adjust before pushing his lips on yours, "Thank you, thank you," he muttered in between kisses as he pulls himself away, prodding the tip of his dick on your throbbing hole.

"I gotta say," Sunghoon chuckled as he pushes his tip inside you slowly, earning a delicious moan from you both, "you're so goddamn pretty, more exceptionally so when I'm inside you."

Sunghoon has a way with words, that's one thing that you made yourself known. That was something about him that you think was what sealed the deal – he fed into your need for constant assurance, even though there were limitations between you both.

"Push it all in," you demanded.

Without another word, Sunghoon pushed himself inside, earning a throaty groan between you both.

"Shit, f-feel so g-good for me, oh, my god," Sunghoon breathed as he pushed his face into the crook of your neck, your arms immediately finding home around his torso.

Sunghoon picks up his pace as he continues on bullying his way inside you, relishing on how your pussy throbs around his dick. With every thrust that he lands inside you, your eyes roll at the back of your head, feeling the pulse of the veins of his dick with every drag.

"God, Sunghoon, I–" you cut yourself off with a groan by his ear, cradling his face as he placed light kisses on your shoulder, "Fuck, Sunghoon, so good!"

The boy pulled his face away, prying your mouth open as he spit into your mouth, his cock drilling inside you in the slowest, yet most delicious way. It was as if he was trying his best to memorize how your gummy walls enveloped his dick, in the hopes of making your pussy remember his.

And, to commit this into memory, Sunghoon removes the ring he had clad around his ring finger, reaching for your left hand that hung around your shoulder, and, in a lust-filled haze, he wore the finger around the nearest finger that was accessible to him, he'd fix that later.

Your eyes wandered to the ring that adorned your thumb, before biting your lip and looking at him. Sunghoon already adjusted himself, kneeling straight as he hikes your leg up and places it on his shoulder; and with a roll of his hips, both of you are already a whimpering, moaning mess.

"So f-full, fucking finally," you moaned out and Sunghoon reaches for your other hand to intertwine it with his, "Yeah? Been dreaming of it for so long, huh?"

Tapping your cheek he makes you look at him, "Been dreaming of this, t-too, baby," he says, panting, "been dreaming of d-doing more than just this, too,"

You looked at him with doe eyes, your lips dropping down to his lips, "Kiss me, Sunghoon."

Sunghoon nodded and kissed you, your hips bucking up to meet his thrusts, it was in that moment that only the two of you existed.

"You're squeezing me so f-fucking..." Sunghoon trailed, eyebrows drawn to each other in concentration, "..so fucking good for me, God, I love you."

His hands travelled down to your clit and rubbed circles around it, making you whimper and pull his face to yours, your lips wanting to get a taste of his again.

"Not gonna last l-long, princess," Sunghoon muttered in between grunts, "You close?" He said as he looked at you, searching your eyes for more than just your sign of being as near as he is.

You hum reaching your head up to peck his lips, "M-me too, Hoonie, dick is f-fucking me so g-good," your head attempting to throw back as his tip kept on hitting that sweet spot inside you.

"I love you," Sunghoon whispers as he lets go of your leg on his shoulder, pressing onto your body as he finally lets go of his cum inside you, your release following suit after he kept on thrusting even if he was coming undone inside you.

For a while, you both had stayed in that position, Sunghoon still deep inside you in between your legs, legs weakly wrapped around his body, both of your arms wrapped around his neck as you combed through his hair.

There was a heavy weight in the air, something that demands to be addressed.

Sunghoon lifts his head up, his chin rest against your chest. With a quick kiss on the valley of your breasts, he pulls the hand that had the ring wrapped around your thumb, he kisses your inner wrist, before, with lidded eyes, removing the ring and placing it instead to your ring finger, kissing your palm after a close inspection.

Sunghoon had never been so sure in his life, until now.

"I meant what I said," Sunghoon says quietly, his eyes now trained on your hand, eager to confess that it had always been you all along.

"Sunghoon, we can't.."

"Why?"

"You're going to get married,"

"I called it off."

You looked at him with a gasp, "What?"

"I said I found a partner, I always told you I'll always have you close, right?" he says as he sent you a soft smile, relishing in the hand that played with his hair.

"You're crazy," you chuckled.

"You make me go crazy over you," Sunghoon smiles with his eyes almost close.

"I love you, too, Sunghoon."

And when your eyes both meet, Sunghoon smiled softly, and that was when you both knew – it was where you both are supposed to be.

Sunghoon hums as he wraps his arms around you and pulls you close, this time, sure.

"Stay with me tonight," Sunghoon whispers.

"I'll stay tomorrow, too," you add.

"And on the days after that?" Sunghoon asks, his cheek pressed against your chest.

"And on the days after eternity."

DISCLAIMER. I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION FOR MY WORK TO BE COPIED/REPOSTED ON HERE OR ANY OTHER PLATFORM, OR PUT INTO ANY AI PROGRAMS. DON'T LIKE, DON'T READ.

#park sunghoon #sunghoon x reader #park sunghoon x reader #sunghoon #sunghoon smut #park sunghoon smut #enhypen hard hours #enhypen hard hour #sunghoon imagines #park sunghoon imagines #enhypen #enhypen smut #enhypen imagines #enhypen x reader #enhypen sunghoon #sunghoon x you #enhypen hard thoughts #enhypen sunghoon smut

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fangswbenefits · 2 months ago

Text

The Arrangement (16) - When All Things End

Summary: Astarion would never forgive himself for having you die by his hands, even if indirectly. A choice is to be made, and one he has no control over.

Rating: Explicit/18+

Pairing: Astarion x Female!Tav

Warnings: Character death. Trauma. Gore

Word count: 5.1k

Series masterlist. AO3.

Thump.. Thump… Thump… Thump… Thump…

If regret could kill, Astarion reckoned he would be buried underground with, at the very least, several hundreds of layers of scorching dirt imprisoning him. And deservedly so. He would seldom bother concocting antidotes, considering how little use he’d have for them. After all, he aimed true and with purpose whenever he coated his blades in lethal poison, never intending for his targets to live long enough to tell the tale of their vapid encounter.

And now he was paying the price for such… arrogance.

Both men holding him and keeping him at bay, quickly fell limpless on the ground when the familiar blinding rays of yellow hit them mercilessly.

Shadowheart.

Through roars of hurried incantations and deafening screeches of pain, the former servants of Cazador Szarr met their doom by daring to cross you.

Pain and anguish quickly took over him, as he managed to pick up his dagger before hurrying towards you, almost losing his footing as his senses blurred.

“No.”

The word kept tumbling from his lips like a prayer. The Gods above never took notice of his pleas – and if they did, they never bothered intervening. However, you weren’t him. He could perhaps understand now why such grace and benevolence wasn’t extended to him.

But you weren’t him.

Please…

You were you, and you didn’t deserve this fate.

“No.”

You didn’t deserve to have your last breath being drawn because of his past deeds.

Eyla still held on to you, blade fully lodged in your body and blood pouring out in an obscene quantity, drenching the fabric of your gown in an ever-growing stain.

The sight itself was enough to make his steps falter, but when the scent of your blood hit him, he audibly cursed. Unfortunately, his sanguine hunger was very much bound to you. Even in this moment of distress, he could feel his nature as a vampire being pushed to the surface, urging him to succumb to his desires.

It was enough to root him to the ground for a brief moment.

“Astarion!”

Shadowheart had clearly taken notice of this, her face of pure focus immediately shifting into something akin to sheer frustration.

His head snapped in her direction, and he almost lost his balance again as waves of disgust met waves of hunger within him. A raging war taking place as he tried his best to reach you.

Once he managed to lock eyes with your lifeless form lying next to Eyla, Astarion knew there and then that it was too late.

The realisation hit him hard, and he felt cool tears streaming down his face.

He was a master at poisons. No decent rogue could call themselves a deadly assassin if they couldn’t brew the deadliest of poisons. It was an art, but one that sought only to wreak pain and misery.

With the entire blade having been coated in it, there was no way you could survive it.

You were… gone.

Silence encased him at once, and he wasn’t sure if it was his mind blocking out any distractions, or if it was merely the sign that Shadowheart’s wrath was finally spent.

“You may kill me, but she goes down with me.”

Astarion gripped the handle of his dagger with such force, he feared he might snap it in half. His feet began moving once more, on their own accord, and he found the hunger inside him give way to something more primal.

Something he hadn’t felt since he had carved Rhapsody in Cazador countless times – a welcome source of immediate release that allowed him to find a semblance of revenge.

He wasn’t going to kill Eyla.

No.

That would be too kind, all things considered.

He would take his sweet time making sure she wouldn’t part this world until she was begging him for it.

The cruelty that was taking hold of his mind almost blinded him, and he found himself baring his fangs, embracing the creature he truly was. Over the past few weeks, he had learned how to conceal his more questionable emotions, locking them away inside.

But there’s only so much anger one can bury before it starts overflowing.

His steps quickened in her direction with a newfound purpose. Blinding rage swallowed him whole as he gained speed.

But before he could deliver an incapacitating blow, Eyla’s neck met the blade of a longsword, which effectively severed the head from the rest of her body.

“Tsk'va…”

Ropes of blood spurted from Eyla, as the head rolled over across the grass, painting it in crimson red.

Lae’zel was quick to kick the decapitated body away from under you, rushing to cradle you in her arms.

His knees wobbled momentarily once he reached the bench, greeted with a sight so revolting it made his stomach lurch dangerously, threatening to spill its contents.

Eyla’s warm blood was spread along your limpless face in a thin layer, and he wanted to hold out his hand to clean it off of you, but decided against it. He was still very much a vampire and his senses were now betraying him and urging him to feed.

Blood is the gift of life and… death, child.

Cazador’s words rang inside him and he stilled his movements at once, realising just how hard it was to deny his instincts, especially since he hadn’t properly fed in so long.

“Astarion…”

Lae’zel’s voice was a low, warning snarl, but it was enough to snap him from the haze that was quickly taking over his mind.

“Don’t remove the blade just yet.” Shadowheart was by Lae’zel’s side, assessing the situation with shaky hands.

“She’s going to die.”

Lae’zel wasn’t one to dance around inconvenient truths. It was a simple and clear statement, because anything other than the obvious would lead to unnecessary pain.

As if pushed down by an invisible force, Astarion finally dropped to his knees.

He wished he could take her place and be the one holding you instead, but he couldn’t bring himself to even suggest such a thing. Not when he could see your open eyes fading as your breath slowed down, small whimpers of pain getting stuck in your throat as life spilled from you, drop by drop.

Suddenly, your eyes found his and he wasn’t sure if it was the faintest of smiles that was ghosting along your lips.

A shell of that smile that had ruined his plan all along.

He had heard your footsteps and couldn’t help but to inwardly grin when you finally made your presence known by softly clearing your throat. Were you in search of some late night company? Had you found what you were looking for?

After all, the two of you had grown quite close over the past few weeks.

In fact, he found himself enjoying your company more than he cared to admit, much less voice it out loud. You had become more than just the person leading this group of… worm-brains while occasionally giving him access to your delectable blood.

But more importantly, you had begun to crawl your way under his skin, tugging persistently at the needles of his moral compass. What had started out as a mere plan to have you fall for him in exchange for protection – and mayhaps a little aid when it came to facing Cazador, if luck would have it – soon morphed into something he had never experienced before. Granted, his vampirism had warped his memories before he was turned, but he was certain that such a feeling wouldn’t be so quickly forgotten.

He wasn’t sure there was a name to describe how you made him feel. Obviously, it wasn’t love. The mere thought of ‘love’ nearly caused him to laugh aloud.

Affection seemed like a more appropriate term.

Whatever it was, it was weighing down on his conscience as time went on, causing him to question the very foundations of his being.

“Maybe one day you could teach me how to brew a poison.”

Oh.

How very… dull.

He fought the urge to roll his eyes, and gave you a dismissive scoff instead. “Whatever for, my dear?”

You crouched next to him as he readied the campfire for nightfall, your penetrating gaze never faltering.

“Well, I think it would be rather advantageous to…” you started off rather sweetly, gentle fingers reaching for the satchel he had by his feet, “... you know, share some of your knowledge as a silent assassin.”

But before your fingertips could touch the vials carefully lodged in it, he caught hold of your wrist, abruptly stilling your hand.

“Poisons aren’t to be trifled with, nor are they bedside toys for unsuspecting children,” he said, his tone coming out harsher than intended, which he immediately regretted when you withdrew from him at once, as if burnt by his very words. “I… apologise.”

There was still a glimmer of kindness in disappointment when you gave him an understanding smile as you held his stare.

Astarion wished you would have been offended or hurt instead by his rash words. It would have made it easier to ignore the constant voice inside his head that kept goading him towards you. On good days, he was able to fully ignore it.

But whenever you were too close… whenever you displayed random acts of kindness around him… whenever he could almost hear the blood rushing through your body… he wasn’t as strong to resist the temptation.

After all, your blood had been his first.

He didn’t let go of your wrist, and instead glided his thumb to rub slow circles along the warm stretch of skin.

Your smile promptly widened, as he stilled the pad just above your artery, feeling its pulse quicken with each passing second.

He knew that smile and the offer that came along with it.

“You can feed on me tonight.”

The grip around you tightened.

On days like this, Astarion wished you hadn’t such a hold on him; that the two of you had never crossed paths, because he wasn’t sure how he’d be able to tolerate your absence if you were to leave him now.

With your free hand, you undid the laces of your chemise, exposing your neck to his gaze. Your heartbeat quickened and he could hear that delicious thumping he had grown so fond of.

Thump… thump… thump…

“Take her. All of her,” the voice taunted.

And so he did.

Astarion couldn’t bear looking in your eyes any longer, so he had no choice but to avert his gaze at once.

“No. Don’t you dare,” Lae’zel snarled in a menacing tone. “You don’t get to look away from what you’ve caused.”

Shadowheart’s voice was louder, still. “We must act fast, if there is any chance!”

Lae’zel didn’t seem quite as convinced of such urgency, and reluctantly lay your body along the blood-soaked bench.

“She’s not going to make it unless there’s an antidote,” she hissed, staring at Astarion. “Do you have one? Quick!”

Shadowheart had her palms spread across your chest and abdomen, uttering words of healing, as frosted beams of light surrounded the dagger lodged inside.

“Astarion!”

He shook his head faintly in utter defeat. “There isn’t one.”

Lae’zel grunted in response, cradling your face in her hands, her forehead touching yours, as your breathing slowed down and your blood stilled with each failed beat of your heart.

He had learned to listen to your heart long ago, out of necessity at first to ensure he could keep you out of trouble, but soon it turned into a meek way to connect with you when everything else about the two of you had crumbled down.

And now he had nothing left of you.

And it had come by his hand.

“Could you try a scroll of Resurrection?” Lae’zel suddenly suggested, caressing your cheek.

She laced her fingers together in prayer, keeping the magic afloat along your body. “It would only work if her body was whole, and she has lost too much blood.”

Thump….. Thump…… Thump…..

Your heart was giving up on you as his poison quickly took over.

“What can we do?” Lae’zel asked.

Shadowheart shook her head, brow furrowed in extreme concentration as foreign words spilled from her lips.

Astarion had never felt as useless as he did now. He could barely recognize the scent of your blood, since it was no longer yours. His poison was corrupting you from within.

“We might have a shot if we get Gale,” Shadowheart said after a while, sweat drops rolling down her forehead. “We need to portal Halsin.”

His head snapped in confusion. “Halsin?”

But Lae’zel was already gone, heading towards the house at lightning speed.

Shadowheart’s lips were pressed into a fine line and her hands moved past your neck, palms now pressed against your skin that was now losing all its warmth.

“The healing she requires is beyond my skill.”

Astarion felt a glimmer of hope burst within him, quickly dragging his knees across the damp grass, bringing both hands to frame your face.

“You’re the most competent cleric I know of.”

She gave a constricted snort, looking somehow less tense. “And how many clerics do you know of?”

“That’s beside the point,” he promptly said. “Why do you think Halsin can help?”

“Well, it just so happens that he's in tune with nature in a way I am not as he’s a druid.” She then turned to him. “You brew your poisons from plants and flowers, don’t you?”

Brilliant!

Astarion felt an uncontrollable urge to kiss Shadowheart for always being the brain whenever the situation called for it, but quickly decided against it. There had been enough casualties without the need to add another one.

Thump……………..thump……..

“There is a chance.”

He nodded.

Astarion wasn’t sure whether she was saying that because she truly believed it, or because she wanted to convince herself.

He glanced down at you, and he could have sworn he saw your lips twitching as he caressed your forehead with the pad of his thumb. Tears didn’t come easy to him these days, but he could feel the prickling in the corners of his eyes. Over centuries, he had committed acts that still haunted him, but he realised nothing would ever compare to this.

Shadowheart was struggling to keep her magic afloat, and it wasn’t enough to keep your heart from beating its last beat.

Thump.

And the silence in his head had never been so loud.

The sharpest of pains tore through you to the point of agony, stirring you awake at once. You tried to blink away the discomfort from the flashes of light high up above you, but your body wouldn’t cooperate. In reality, you weren’t sure if you could muster the strength to move, and felt as though an invisible weight kept you pinned down to the ground.

A warm breeze ghosted over your face, carrying with it the unmistakable scent of rain and… smoke?

Was something burning?

As the humid haze intensified, a jolt of alarm had you moving your legs and arms in an attempt at fleeing whatever was headed your way.

You blinked once more, and had to squint hard for a moment to help your eyes adjust to the new environment, and just as you had managed to get on your knees and hands without losing balance, you realised you weren’t in Baldur’s Gate anymore.

In fact, you weren’t quite certain you were still in Faerûn.

“What the-”

But your words were cut short as dust caught in your throat, causing you to cough violently, as your fingers dug through sand. Roars of thunder and flares of lightning slowly filled your field of vision, and you felt your body convulse slightly in place.

The wild magic within you stirred lightly as if rising from a deep slumber along with your numb senses.

Lightning came first, quickly followed by Fire.

Embers engulfed the palms of your hands and you felt despair overtake you.

It had taken you decades to master the chaos that you had been born with. Much to your dismay, the same lack of control you once felt as a child was now taking over, the elements no longer bending to your will.

“Please. No… no…”

The embers morphed into liquid fire that was now beginning to pool around you, and in a flash of panic, you tumbled backwards to escape it. You had realised at a young age that you had been graced with the chance to wield the elements, but also knowing you could fall victim to them.

Another gust of wind and the flames along your hands turned into erratic bolts of lightning, and you felt the familiar cool of water coursing through your body barely giving you any time to adjust.

You whispered spells and words, seeking desperately to gain back any sense of control.

But then, up ahead in the distance, you witnessed a waterfall of molten lava falling into a pocket of air, which then quickly turned into a whirlwind that swirled across the jagged beds of rocks and trees. The sky rumbled with storms and thin layers of light that seemed to pour from the stars above. There was no sun or moon. No night or day. The sky was split in a vast array of dulled out colours.

None of it made any sense.

With much effort and no less amount of willpower, you managed to get on your feet, pausing briefly to steady yourself. Luckily, the sparks that were bursisting from your hands had come to a halt, and you could feel the conglomeration of elements inside you begin to simmer down.

Another burst of pain in your abdomen had you bending over, a hand instinctively coming to apply pressure.

And that was when you remembered.

You had died.

At least, you should have.

Tentative fingers prodded at the tear in the fabric of your nightgown, finding jagged edges that stretched along your skin from a blade. Upon glancing down, you saw no blood. And while the magic inside you had soothed into a lulling whisper, you knew something was wrong. Very wrong.

“I am sure you have many questions.”

You turned so fast towards the sound that you promptly fell on one knee, hissing in sheer pain once more.

Before you stood a young woman wearing simple robes and hair neatly pulled into a hairdo, loose strands swaying in the sandy breeze. Her body was slightly translucent in a hue of blue, and you could see the line of the horizon behind her where more fire whirlwinds emerged from every direction.

She remained still, waiting for you to compose yourself, and once you did and your vision cleared up, you realised you were actually looking at.

“Mother?”

A tender smile curled her lips, as she nodded curtly.

Back on your feet, the elements that had started to become dormant, flared up to the point you felt as if about to burst.

“It’s been so long, hasn’t it, sweetheart?”

At this point, you were in full panic mode, glazing around and looking for an exit strategy.

Your mother was dead. She had been dead ever since you were merely seven. Whoever was standing in front of you had to be the result of some cheap trick. From the Hells? A curse? Was this the afterlife?

The figure took a few steps towards you. “You’re not dead, but I can assure you that fleeing will drain you into unconsciousness.”

Was that a threat?

“Where am I?”

Thunder cracked above your head and you flinched as she came to a stop. “You were always such a curious child. Want to take a guess?”

Anger snapped you straight. “I don’t care to play games.”

“Very well, then,” she said, lacing her hands together over her abdomen. “You’re in Limbo.”

You blinked twice in sheer perplexity.

Limbo.

The name triggered crumbling memories of old from when you were far too young to rummage through books that spoke of distant lands from this world and the next. And others that lay somewhere in between.

The Ever-Changing Chaos of Limbo.

In that moment, you felt tiny - so incredibly tiny you might slip through the grains of sand under your bare feet.

This revelation transcended you. There was no rhyme or reason to this plane, and it was evident by its chaotic nature that so fiercely rivaled your own wild magic. Elements were at war here, merging and bursting within each other, as if fighting eternally for dominance.

“You’re in the safe zone,” she spoke, snapping you from your thoughts. “Its size is dictated by the intelligence the individual controller possesses.”

You remained silent, assessing all this information that was coming back to you in bits and pieces. A quick glance around revealed a circular zone that evidently seperated the two of you from the utter chaos outside.

A delicate smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Fortunately for you, you didn’t take after your father.” She then extended one arm, and your gaze followed the swift motion, as an invisible force circled both of you, keeping the majority of the mayhem at bay, with only the occasional breezes and droplets of water passing through. “So long as you stay within the safe zone, no harm shall come to you.”

At last, you take in the image of the woman who looks exactly like your mother once did when she passed away. Not a day younger or older. In fact, you were now around her age, which only served to make the concept of this encounter even harder to grasp.

So much of you was from her, save for the eyes. Those were your father’s. Even though she appeared translucent, it didn’t lessen the pain of gazing at her once again.

“Who are you?”

“Your mother.”

You swallowed hard and balled your fists in defiance. “My mother is dead. Whatever trick this-”

She raised one hand and you fell silent. “I’m a projection of your mind, hence why I look this young. As such, my spirit lingers here and it’s given corporeal form by you.”

Somehow, the answer felt disappointing, even though it was the only logical explanation. Even then… “Why is your spirit here? Why am I here?”

She too was barefoot as she strode around you, keeping her distance. “Let’s just say that I meddled with what I shouldn’t have when I was younger. There are forces here that I cannot explain, nor do we have the time to exhaust such options.”

“Why not?”

More bursts of thunder burst overhead as she placed her hands behind her back, drawing closer with each step she took.

“You’re my daughter and they killed you.”

There was a hint of a sadness in her voice you hadn’t heard in such a long, long time.

And you were reminded of what had led to such a turn of events.

Astarion.

You expected a familiar skip of a beat that always came at the thought of him these days, and then you quickly understood why something felt off. Your heart was still beating, but at a much slower pace nigh imperceptible, to the point you could hardly feel it even when you placed your palm on your chest; your skin was tepid at most, and your breaths were shallow and spaced out.

“You’re fading, but you don’t have to,” she said with the same kindness from your childhood. “It matters only if you wish to go back.”

The proposition took you by surprise, mostly because while there were ways to cheat death, they weren’t cheap or easy to come by, and such graces were seldom handed out freely.

Seeing that you offered no response, she went on, locking eyes with you. “Or you can choose to stay.”

A deep-seated fear had taken root inside you, giving way to despair.

And if there was a chance…

“I want to go back,” you said firmly at once. “This is not living.”

Her expression softened in a way that brought memories of her breaking the news that playtime had prematurely come to an end. “It isn't dying, either. Hence the name Limbo.”

Your nails were digging into the palms of your hands, and you could feel it nearing the point of breaking skin and drawing blood.

“Let me out.”

She now stood so close you could see all the details on her face, and it was as if staring in a mirror. A few freckles dusted across her cheeks and nose and the same tender smile you remember Astarion adoring.

“If only it were that simple, child.”

“Was that what happened to you?” you said, your growing anger nearly bursting at the seams. “When you suddenly dropped dead in front of me? You had a choice and you chose to leave your child?”

For once, she was taken aback, her face twisted in a mix of pain and outrage. “Long before you were born, I made the foolish mistake of seeking answers in worlds that weren’t meant for the mortals, even those who treaded paths of pure magic such as us.”

You waited for her to go on.

Her voice faltered momentarily and she heaved a deep sigh. “I had read about this place and my stubbornness landed me here. At the time, I was pregnant with you, but I didn’t know it yet, and those who rule this place offered a bargain.”

The more she talked, the more it dawned on you that wherever she was headed with this conversation wasn’t a pleasant place, and at this point you weren’t so sure you wanted the answers to the questions you’d asked.

Still, you remained silent, simply crossing your arms.

“Those who come here aren’t offered a way out unless there’s something of value to be traded,” she said. “All those years ago, I was offered a way out if I allowed them to meddle with you.” Her eyes widened in alarm, realising the conclusion you’d immediately drawn. “I only learned about you that day. They knew of my wild magic and how powerful it can be, but there is never a certainty that it’s passed off to an offspring.”

The implication that dangled from her words was enough for you to figure out what was coming next.

She looked at your almost pleadingly, hands brought together close to her neck. “It was either that or I would have remained here and perished, and you along with me. So I agreed with the terms, and they branded you to ensure you’d have wild magic coursing through you.”

You tried to muster any words, but you couldn’t speak. It was too much to digest all at once, especially given the current circumstances.

She made a move as if to grab your own hands, but you immediately pulled back and away from her touch.

For a few seconds, you allowed silence to fall between you two, only occasionally broken by the elements that were trying to break into the safe zone.

“But when I left this place, you took something with you,” she said, curling her arms back against her chest. “Unbeknownst to them at first, but it didn’t take them long to realise they had made a mistake by embedding such power in you.”

Each revelation proved to be worse than the latter. “Took what?”

“Your magic manifested itself even during the pregnancy. I could feel it. Hells, even your father could. It wasn’t normal. I had no answers, but I knew it was related to this place.” She paused and you saw tears outlining her eyes. “You were born and it took all of my own magic to keep yours at bay. All the while I kept searching for a way to sever your connection to this place.”

A shiver ran down your spine, and for a split second you wondered if this wasn’t the work of some cambion merely playing mind tricks on you.

Then, surprisingly, a faint, sad smile settled on her lips. “As expected, they found out about it and I had to trade my life for yours. My magic wasn’t as valuable to them as yours, but it was enough to deter them from you until you one day died, and regardless of whether it was a timeless death or otherwise, you’d end up right here.”

It was all too much to process, and you weren’t sure how to feel about the woman you had mourned for years, wishing every day you had been strong enough to keep her from dying.

“You can loathe me and I expect it,” she went on, voice but a whisper. “But in the end, you can now take advantage of this and get a second chance at life.”

“So I should thank you?”

She shook her head. “No, but you can choose to go back and forfeit the afterlife.”

“So…” you drawled out, half perplexed and half outraged, “is that what you’ve come here to tell me? That I have to trade something off?”

She nodded.

“What is it?”

Before she replied, she took a look around. “The safe zone is shrinking. Time is running out.”

At this point, you were sure that if there was a chance you might go back and live the life that was robbed from you, you would take it.

“What is it they want?” you pressed, feeling yourself grow weaker as the barrier that kept the chaos at bay was now fading with each passing second.

Still not glancing at you, she spoke, “Your magic.”

This time, you did feel your heart skip a beat. “How so?”

Your mother looked you in the eye with that nurturing expression on her face that you adored so much growing up.

“If you go back, you will no longer possess magic,” she said. “If you stay, you can still wield it and learn to roam these lands under their watch. Or…” She paused again, “you can choose to pass on and fade away.”

Drop by drop, it started to pour, and in a few seconds you were drenched from head to toe. An uncomfortable jab in your upper abdomen stirred you from your state of shock.

“You’re bleeding.”

You pressed a hand to the open wound, feeling thunder and fire and water coiling under your skin, wanting to burst free. A quick glance down and you saw rivulets of blood seeping through your fingers.

“Tell me,” she said, closing the gap between you two, and pressing her hand atop yours, “what do you want, child?”

Your vision began to blur and your knees gave up under you.

“I want to live.”

AN: I have taken some liberties with DnD lore in regards to Limbo and healing/wild magic. For plot purposes, and because I believe that's the most fun you can have with DnD! Homebrew your own adventures hehe

Thank you all for the lovely comments and for waiting so patiently. I am still very much in love with this story!

#astarion x tav #astarion #the arrangement #astarion x female tav #astarion fic #astarion x reader #astarion x f!tav

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kunaskitten · 2 months ago

Text

A Problem Named Sukuna (sukuna x reader) [college au]

> Warnings: 18+, smut, college au, face-sitting, creampie, kinda overstim, dom-kuna/sub-reader, sukuna and reader drink alcohol, drunk-ish sex, if I forgot any lmk!

> Word Count: 2.4k

> A/N: something about frat boy Sukuna makes me feral. Not my art; credits to: @ Chalseu_D on Twitter

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You didn’t know exactly when Sukuna became a problem.

Maybe it was the first time you had the misfortune of sitting next to him in class. Sprawling across the seat like he owned it, manspreading so obnoxiously that you had to shove his knee aside just to have room for yourself. He had looked at you then, amused, like a cat staring down a feisty mouse.

Though, he might've become a problem when he first spoke to you.

“You’re cute,” he said. He sounded bored with the world, but had decided you were interesting enough to look at. “I think I’ll keep you.”

You barely glanced up from your notes and scoffed. You were well aware of who he was due to his reputation, and from what you could gather, he was bad news all around. “Not interested.” You said simply.

Sukuna chuckled, finding your dismissive response quite entertaining. “You don’t even know what I’m offering.”

That's when you finally turned to him, meeting his gaze directly for the first time as you get a good glance at his features. Oh, I can see why the other girls fawn over him now.

“You’re offering yourself,” you said flatly. “Which, lucky for you, plenty of people would jump at. I’m just not one of them.”

That should have been the end of it, but guys like Sukuna didn’t get rejected often. He had the face, the body, and the sheer audacity to walk through life like he owned everything in his line of sight. That worked on a lot of people.

But you refused to let it work on you.

Sukuna tilted his head, examining you intently. You hated how it made your nerves flare up and how it felt like he could see right through you. Then, to your irritation, his smirk widened.

“Don’t worry, princess.” He leaned in slightly, voice dropping as if sharing a secret. “I like the ones who play hard to get.”

You exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around your pen. “It’s not a game, Sukuna. I’m just not interested.”

His grin didn’t waver. If anything, it sharpened. “Sure,” he said easily. Then he pulled out his phone, tapped a few things, and suddenly shoved it into your hands.

You blinked. “What—”

“Put your number in.”

You stared at him and your heart skipped a few beats. “You cannot be serious.”

“Dead serious.”

“Sukuna, I literally just told you—”

“For when you change your mind,” he said, cutting you off, grinning like he knew something you didn’t. “I’ll even let you name yourself something cute. How about Mine?”

You scowled at him and his antics, doing your best not to fall for his charms. “You are unbelievable,” you muttered, but against your better judgment, you typed in your number anyway... if only so he will leave me alone.

And so after that encounter in your lecture, you didn't see him in person much over the next week, but that didn't mean he wasn't in your life. And, well, that's because Sukuna proved that handing over your number for temporary relief had been the worst decision you could’ve possibly made.

Maybe that's when Sukuna became a problem, because the texts you had been receiving were as persistent and insufferable as he was in class that day.

Whether it was early morning.

Sukuna: "Mornin’, princess. Dream about me?"

Or in the middle of the day.

Sukuna: "What are you wearing?"

Or late at night when you both should definitely be asleep.

Sukuna: "Bet you’d look real cute under me."

It became a pattern more quickly than your disdain for him had grown. And despite the fact that you seldom replied, he never let up. But when you did reply?

You: "Have you ever considered just shutting the hell up?"

Sukuna: "Sure. Have you ever considered sitting on my face?"

Being Sukuna's current pursuit was not for the faint of heart.

And then there's the chance that Sukuna had become a problem on that night he invited you to one of his parties. That night, as you were getting ready to relax for the evening, you felt the all-too-familiar buzz of your phone. The screen lit up, and you knew exactly who it was before even looking.

Sukuna: "Throwing a party tonight. It'd be a shame if you didn't show."

You scoffed at his audacity. Of course he’d invite you to one of his infamous frat parties. It was just another attempt to lure you in with his charm, arrogance, and whatever else he thought could win you over. But before you could reply, he was already messaging you again.

Sukuna: "Or are you scared that a few drinks will show your true feelings, princess?"

It definitely felt like a challenge, one you couldn't ignore. Though, to respond would be falling for his trap, you didn't care and had already made your decision for that night.

You: "I’m not your princess. But I’ll be at your party. Just to prove a point."

It was petty. You have no obligation to prove you can hold your own after a few drinks. But there was something in the way he spoke to you that just made it impossible to let it slide.

Sukuna: "I knew you'd come around. See you soon, princess."

And just like that, you were committed. You reminded yourself that this was just about proving a point. But as you walk across campus dolled up all pretty, you start to realize how foolish this might end up being.

You stood at the door of the frat house, your heart pounding in your chest. The thumping bass of the music hit you first, the music blaring through the walls as the door swung open. A few people rushed past you, drunk and laughing, but your eyes were fixed on the room ahead. The crowd was massive, but somehow, through the craze, you spotted him immediately.

Sukuna leaned against the wall, his usual smirk plastered across his face as he watched you with that unmistakable air of superiority. His eyes flickered to your lips before they met yours, and for a moment, you almost felt like the whole world had stopped.

"Glad you made it, princess," he said, voice as smooth as ever. He looked exceptionally good tonight, though he hadn't done anything special, he just looked so... effortless. And that damn smirk was already making your heart flutter a bit.

You didn’t respond, your only reply a deep, inward breath. His presence was like a weight pressing on your chest. He was as dangerous as he was captivating, but you weren't going to let any of this stop you from proving he had no impact on you.

"I’ll get you a drink," he offered, eager to see you actually hold up this point throughout the night.

But perhaps Sukuna became a problem after he convinced you to down 3 shots within an hour.

Sukuna kept his eyes on you as you steadily downed the drinks, one after another, as your conviction to prove your point never wavered.

You hadn’t planned on getting tipsy, but it was inevitably going to happen when you walked in the door. You weren’t sure when it happened, but suddenly, Sukuna’s presence was all-encompassing, pulling you in closer, tugging at you in ways that felt both urgent and undeniable.

Was it a problem when your body started to betray you? After the tipsiness was in full swing and you found yourself standing a little too close to him, holding onto his arm as you laughed at something you couldn't quite remember? The space between you was no longer an uncomfortable gap as your fingers curled around the solid muscle of his bicep.

With every step you took, with every movement you made, he could feel it. He could feel you caving in. He could feel how the alcohol was loosening your tongue, your body, your everything. And he couldn’t help but watch, his gaze dark and intense as he watched the shift.

Your breath came a little quicker now, more shallow, and you caught yourself leaning in closer to him without realizing it. You would glance up at him from time to time, only to get lost in those daunting eyes of his. The way his tattoos lined his face and defined his features just made you all the more interested in him. Is that when Sukuna became a problem? When your mind started to realize just how attractive he really was?

It wasn’t until a few more shots and another hour later that you found yourself sitting on the couch; that you realized just how far you’d gone. The shift happened without warning. One moment, you were standing, trying to prove some silly point, and the next, you were perched on his lap, your legs straddling his, your body weight resting heavily against his chest.

Had Sukuna become a problem when you let him grip onto your hips and pull you closer to him? You hadn’t meant to be this close, but now, with your hands on his shoulders, you're the one desperate to lean in first for a kiss.

Sukuna was a problem. But right now, you couldn’t even remember why you ever tried to fight it.

You couldn’t remember when the teasing, the banter, the defiance had gone. It was all gone now, replaced by the heat building between you, the undeniable pull that made your pulse race. You felt him smile into the kiss, a wicked, self-assured curve of his lips, and it drove you wild. He knew what he was doing to you, and the fact that you didn’t know whether to pull away or get closer made it all the more intoxicating.

And Sukuna became an even bigger problem when you couldn't resist the urge to grind against him ever-so-slightly.

He pulled back, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide as he studied your flushed face. A satisfied smirk spread across his features. “You really are something else.”

His hand slid down to your lower back, pressing you even closer, and the weight of his body on yours made your breath hitch. But it was more than just the physical pressure; it was the sensation of being completely at his mercy, the intensity of it all, and it was both overwhelming and exhilarating.

Your hands tangled in his hair, tugging him closer as you continued to kiss, your heart fluttering in your chest as you drowned in the sensation of his tongue in your mouth and continued to roll your hips against him. The alcohol may have loosened you up, but it wasn’t just the drinks making you needy, desperate even... it was him. He was making you crave this in ways you hadn’t even known you could.

He pulled away just enough to look at you, his smirk widening as his grip on you tightened once more. Before you could even react, he was standing up, lifting you effortlessly off his lap like it was nothing. His strong arms cradled you close, and one hand slid to your ass, gripping it firmly to support you, his touch possessive and casual, as though you had always belonged in his hold.

You blinked and gasped, momentarily surprised, the room swaying around you as your body felt weightless in his arms. “Sukuna, wait—”

He cut you off with a low chuckle, his lips curling into a grin. “You’re overthinking it, princess,” he murmured, his grip firm but reassuring as he held you close. “Relax. This’ll be fun, and I can't wait to see what kind of a hot mess you turn into."

Before you could argue further, he began to move, striding confidently through the crowded party. You felt small and helpless in his grasp, like a ragdoll being carried without a care. The noise, the music, the people; All you could focus on was the solid warmth of his chest beneath you, his breath warm on your skin, and the way his hold on you never loosened as he carried you upstairs.

Although, Sukuna most likely became a real problem when he made you sit on his face like he had mentioned in those texts a few days ago. As he licked and sucked on your clit in ways that felt too good to describe you arched your back whilst trying to hold up your weight a little still.

"I said," Sukuna grips your thighs and pulls you down more, "fucking sit on my face." The words are muffled but you fully understand. And so you do. And as you do, your legs shake and you let out these pitiful whines and moans that show just how overstimulated you are.

You can't hold it back anymore, not when his mouth is on you like this, not when the pleasure is so good that your toes curl unwillingly. "S-Sukuna I—" You couldn't even finish your warning before you're cumming hard all over his face.

He gives you no rest, picking you up and shifting the position, unbuckling his pants and pulling them down just enough to free his hard length. Was Sukuna becoming a problem the more and more that you bounced up and down on his unfairly thick cock? The stretch of it made you feel so full that any point you were wanting to prove tonight had fizzled up and died as you gripped onto him helplessly.

Your lips find his and you moan into his mouth as he continues to have his way with you. You can taste yourself on his tongue, only making the reality of how much of a problem Sukuna is more grounded. Though, you didn't really need that reminded, not when the tip of his dick is hitting your cervix every other second as he trusts into you and bottoms out each time.

And as that goes on to the point where he groans and unloads hot, sticky spurts of cum deep inside your needy pussy, your mind blanks as you ride the high and you collapse into Sukuna's chest as your body damn near gives out.

Breath shaking, full on panting, you muster a pathetic, "H-Hey Sukuna..."

He smirks at the unraveled mess still sitting on his cock and lazily answers you, a little breathless himself, "Yeah princess?"

You smile and look up at him, oxytocin coursing through your body which causes you to say the silliest things as you finally realize what's happened to you. "I think you've become my problem."

His smirk widens and he gives you a soft kiss on the forehead, a moment of unexpected affection that makes your heart race even more. "Don’t worry about it," he teases. "I’m the best problem you’ll ever have."

#sukuna x reader #jjk x you #jjk x reader #ryomen sukuna #ryomen sukuna smut #sukuna x reader smut #ryomen x reader #sukuna jjk #jjk sukuna #ryomen sukuna x reader

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bitter-me · 4 months ago

Text

My September

Harumasa Asaba | M. Reader as Mei Shijima [TBHK]

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Spoilers for those who haven't read the Picture Perfect Arc of Toilet Bound Hanako Kun

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For as long as Harumasa could remember, the entirety of his childhood was filled with a sterile white room, IV drips, and other machineries. That's just his normal. Wake up, eat, take his medicine, sleep. Rinse and repeat.

A rather boring and dull childhood.

Until one day. He saw someone poking their head into his room, eyes filled with curiosity and wonder. But the moment Harumasa noticed them, they fled. A strange encounter. However as time passes it becomes something Harumasa secretly looks forward to.

He would tell his master about it with a grin on his face while the adult laughs and encourages him. Thinking it's just an imaginary friend. It's normal for children to let their imagination wander after all, yet Harumasa would pout insisting that the encounter was real.

Determined to prove himself right one day, Harumasa decided to escape his room and search for this mysterious figure. Hiding from the adults and other unfamiliar figures Harumasa looks through every corner just to find them. Surely they were here, right? After what felt like an eternity Harumasa found a door, slightly ajar.

This must be it! And so without a second thought Harumasa went through it and was met by a room similar to his but with less medical equipment. Just an IV drip that's connected to the very person he's been trying to find.

That's when Harumasa.. met his first friend.

[Name] Shijima. A really talented artist. Well he's not a artist yet.. but Harumasa is super positive that he'll be one!

Through the times the two grew close. Perhaps their shared pain is what brought them together, but their ambitions and dreams drew them closer.

One day, Harumasa is in [Name]'s room. Chatting with him while the latter draws in his sketchbook. Until [Name] spoke up as he showed Harumasa his rough sketch with stars in his eyes. "In this Atelier Tower, there's a 'what if' version of me and he draws being healthy and well."

As he explains the backstory of his sketch one of his brushes rolls from the overbed table to the tiled floor. Seeing this [Name] attempts to grab it only to tugged his IV on his hand making him flinch in pain. Worried, Harumasa took the brush from the floor and handed it to the other with a weary smile. "Are you okay? Did it hurt?"

"I'm fine, it only hurts a little." [Name] reassures him. Setting down his sketchbook at the overbed table. He looks at it for a second, analyzing every detail of his Atelier Tower. Hie vision. His ambition. His dream.

Harumasa noticed the somber expression on his friend's face as he put the brush on the table. He was about to ask what was wrong, but the sound of the door opening stopped him, his master by the door. Ah, is it already time for him to get back? A hint of disappointment flashes in his eyes, reluctantly bidding his goodbyes to [Name].

When he's left alone [Name] let out a sigh before speaking in a low, somber tone. His gaze is still fixed on his sketch. "The me on this side... I'm just a tiny bit sick, you know? But I'm sure I'll get better soon!"

Lowering his head [Name] rested his cheek on the table. Looking at it with longing. "But until then... In my place, will you draw for me, other me?"

He said in a low, somber tone as if he's talking to his 'other version' that lives inside the Atelier Tower. "If you do that, I'll do my best."

"..isn't it weird? I'm talking to myself.."

...

.....

"...of course."

"The poor thing..."

"....And so young, how sad..."

"That poor boy... he's still drawing..."

"But... it's such a severe illness..."

"Recently all he does is sleep.... he seldom eats any of his food! Surely that boy..."

"..is going to die soon..."

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That was the last day Harumasa saw [Name].

His master doesn't let him hang out with [Name] anymore and when he asked, all Harumasa got was a small smile. As if the older man is trying to comfort him silently. The same goes for the other doctors there. He doesn't understand.

Why? Why are they not letting him see his friend anymore? That's not fair! Not fair at all! [Name] was in the middle of creating that Atelier Tower of his! And he was planning on showing the finished painting to Harumasa! And [Name] was about to go to art school and became an artist!

...oh sweet childhood innocence..

In the end. Harumasa did see the painting [Name] had promised him. It was on display at an art room of a well-known art school. The creator was nowhere to be seen.

Now he stood there with eyes fixed on the painting. A student, on his way to become a part of HSO. Stood motionless at the mere sight of it as people whispered around him.

"Have you heard? They say that the creator of that painting was very talented at drawing.. but his parents were opposed to him continuing the path of art.. so, in order to chase his dreams.."

"He decided to kill himself."

Harumasa's heart dropped at the sound of their whispers. No.. it's not true.. it can't be true. [Name] didn't..

"Whoa, that makes sense!"

"What so, he killed himself?"

"The painting is kinda scary too.. I don't like it.."

"What if it has all of his evil resentment inside it?"

"That's scary!"

No! [Name] parents supported him. They encourage him to follow his dreams! They weren't opposed to it! Harumasa would know! He would know! They were.. they were..

The Atelier Tower was finished.

And so is its creator.

Time somehow passes by in a blur. Before Harumasa knew it he had graduated. This is it. He's going to be a part of HSO now. All he needs to do is..

Harumasa froze. His feet glued to the ground as his eyes widened. His classmates were all busy with their families, friends, and loved ones. Of course they are, they just graduated, they're celebrating!

Yet his golden eyes caught something else—or perhaps it's more appropriate to say, someone else.

He stood there. Locking eyes with Harumasa. Then.. he smiles. The same smile Harumasa had grown to like.. to adore..

"[Name]..?"

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 1 year ago

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the elitism in magic education

HELLO 🤡 I have come to you today with an analysis of Fellow Honest's motives and what they imply about the mages and non-mages in the world of Twisted Wonderland, as well as the state of magic education as it relates to one's social status. It's a doozy, so let's get right into it! ***WARNING: Spoilers for Stage in Playful Land!!***

Fellow's resentment of the elite harkens back to something I've always suspected but also something that Twisted Wonderland has seldom gone out of its way to shine a harsh spotlight on. That "something" is the discrepancy between the "haves" and the "have-nots" in terms of magic. With the main setting of TWST being a private magic school, of course the lens through which we view many events will be from this perspective as well... and that limits what we see and hear. Most of the NPCs we encounter (even the annoying ones, such as the Magicam Monsters from the first Halloween event) endlessly praise the NRC students just for attending a famous magic school. If we look closely though, we’ll start to see cracks in the shiny rose-colored lenses (which, coincidentally, is how Fellow’s UM name is written).

To begin with, we are told that only 10% of the human population (for the sake of argument, let's assume that most other races also have low magic rates) is even capable of magic to begin with. Of this 10%, the majority of people with the aptitude for magic only have enough to barely be able to lift a cup. In order to qualify for a prestigious magic school like Night Raven College or Royal Sword Academy, you'd literally have to be the cream of the crop and get lucky in terms of genetics. Magic cannot be learned by someone that was not born with the innate ability for it, and not everyone who is the child of a mage will be capable of magic themselves. This is already one HUGE barrier for entry. We now have more to consider.

Night Raven College is notably a private boarding school. This potentially means that students may need to pay a tuition fee for classes, room, and board. Perhaps this tuition doesn't exist, since NRC doesn't take applications but rather hand-selects its students. Additionally, NRC is based on a British school, and most European schools cost little to nothing to attend. However, it's hard to believe a school as fancy as NRC is a private institution that runs solely on the charity and goodwill of donors (though we do see Crowley happily accepting donations as well, specifically from the local town and from Kalim’s family). Realistically speaking, Stuff Costs Money, and if you Want Stuff, you also Need Money. NRC is not raising these mages of the future out of the goodness of their hearts, NRC is raising these mages because there is profit and prestige to be gained from the endeavor. What if there are students who are picked to go but end up having to leave because they can’t afford it?? This point is just speculative though; I won’t count it as actual evidence since there is no in-game lore which confirms tuition. We do know, however, that students do at least have to pay for their dorm uniforms, as Ruggie has mentioned he could not afford one—hence why he wears a hand-me-down from Leona. We also know students are on their own when it comes to paying for their food, as both Ruggie and Deuce mention being low on cash in reference to buying meals/snacks. Buuuuut even if we discount that money is a factor that gatekeeps some selected students from attending or having the cash to just get by on a daily basis, what we cannot ignore is that money inherently puts some people ahead of others before magic schools even recruit them.

Because the majority of those in Twisted Wonderland are incapable of using magic, magic is not typically included in general education. This means that if your kid manifests magic and you want them to be "ahead of the curve", you'd need to seek out resources for magic training and education. Now, this could mean reading materials, private tutoring, or reaching out to mages you know of. The problem with all of these things is that they tend to require money and/or connections, which are things not everyone has access to. Idia even says in book 6 that Riddle has an “artificially large” pool of magic due to how young Riddle started his magic training, meaning that the wealthy has the resources to just produce “better” mages. The rich also have more money to throw into items to help with magical training, such as bigger and better magestones (which must sell for substantial amount in the first place since Ruggie tries to save some to pawn off later in Vargas Camp) to keep mages healthier for longer (since magestones help absorb blot). This keeps power concentrated in an already elevated class. (Note: research has shown that money opens up and expands one's connections, which still puts the rich in an advantageous position compared to the less fortunate. There are also studies that show impoverished people who happen to have rich friends have a better chance of raising their own social standing just because of the doors and connections that rich friend can open for them.) Look at who in the main cast remarks on having formal magic training: literal royalty like Leona and the upper middle class like Riddle. Again, one could say that because schools like NRC appear to hand-pick students regardless of how much formal magic training they had prior to enrollment. However, the fact remains that it simply looks better to potential recruiters (using this blanket term because we don't know how magic schools besides NRC gets its students) and better prepares the child for magic school curriculum to get an early start on it.

Looking back at the 22 boys that make up the main cast, close to three-quarters or ~75% of them come from at least upper middle-class backgrounds and quite a few could classify as wealthy:

Riddle's parents are both doctors, with Riddle's mom in particular being well-known and well-regarded in their home community.

Cater's dad is a banker; his position is high enough up that he needs to relocate every so often (presumably to service their largest or most important firms).

Leona is a literal prince. Even if he isn't destined to be king, he still has access to the resources and wealth avaliable to a royal.

Azul's mom owns the most popular restaurant in the entire Coral Sea (have you seen how large the Coral Sea is on the world map???), and his stepdad is a lawyer.

The twins' family is said to be well-off; they are able to afford luxuries like fancy clothes and Mr. Leech stresses the importance of manners and presentation. He is implied to have business associates who are also well-off and would like to get in his good graces. (Popular fan speculation is that the Leeches are a crime family.)

Kalim is the heir to a massive family fortune and trading business. He also has relatives (by marriage, I believe) who are royals.

Jamil, as Kalim's attendant, is also from a reasonably well-off family; they receive benefits unique to being closely tied with the Asims, such as exposure to elite society and lessons to acquire various skills, albeit these benefits comes with being in the lower social position of a servant.

Vil's father is an A-list celebrity, and Vil is also one himself.

We don't know the specifics of what Rook's family does, but it must be well-paying, as we learn in book 5 that the Hunts have villas all over Twisted Wonderland, as well as permissions for international travel via warp pads.

Idia and Ortho's family run a secret organization that researches blot. S.T.Y.X. is so secretive that basically only those in super high positions like Crowley and Leona would know about them. Let's also not forget that the Shrouds have ties to the Jupiter Conglomerate and the Olympus Corp, which is a tech giant in the world of TWST.

Malleus is prince AND the heir to his kingdom’s throne. He is also one of the top 5 most powerful mages in the entire WORLD.

Lilia is a renown war general and a close friend of royalty. He raised a young Malleus as well.

Silver is Lilia's adopted son and is actually a prince himself.

Sebek's parents are dentists. They must make mad money. His grandfather is also a respected knight that served alongside Lilia.

Notice how all the dorm leaders are upper middle class or higher; the vice dorm leaders have ONE normal person (Trey); in Playful Land, Trey confesses to living a comfortable life so we know he must be at least middle class.

We can try to argue all we like that NRC doesn't discriminate based on social status for their selections, but if that's the case then why are so few of the main cast from impoverished or low-income families? Only Ace, Trey, and Jack count as squarely middle class. Ruggie is the only example we have of someone from a very low socioeconomic status rising up to be among "elites". The other example is Deuce, who comes from a single parent household and has implied they don't have a lot of money (for example: how the VDC/SDC earnings will help out his family). (Epel is kind of a ??? case because depending on where in the story you are, his family could be in financial trouble or not; in book 5, they imply his entire village is having difficulties selling product until Vil promotes Harveston apples on his Magicam.) Maybe it's unfair to say that 22 students out of 800ish is representative of the makeup of the entire NRC student population (or represents the composition of all magic schools), but Ruggie confirms in his Birthday Boy vignettes that a majority of the students at NRC are decently well-off. This single digit representation of low-income students is also true of real-life elite schools. They are private schools for a reason; it naturally gatekeeps who is and isn't "allowed" to attend, leading to the majority of its students being members of the elite.

Another thing to consider is legacy students. This term refers to the increased likelihood of people being accepted into a school if they had a relative that also attended that school. We know of two instances of this happening: Ace's brother and Sebek's brother also went to and graduated from Night Raven College. Ace even makes a remark during his sorting ceremony that he ended up in the same dorm as his older brother "as expected". If magic aptitude is genetic, then perhaps it makes sense to recruit from the same families--but again, this is inherently restrictive, as you would continuously be culling from the same pools generation after generation.

Back on the topic of bloodlines and family, what about Kalim, who has an extensive family? There will be no shortage of Asim mages going to NRC just because of legacy (Jamil even alludes to the fact that the previous Scarabia dorm leader was an Asim relative, and his recommendation is what got Kalim the dorm leader seat). And speaking of Kalim, consider instances where rich families are able to bribe faculty (lookin' at YOU, Crowley) or donate a large sum to get their kid ahead or to be given priority over others that may be more qualified than them (RIP Jamil). To continue off that point, NRC itself is structured as a "dog eat dog" world. Those with inherently more magical ability have the right to trump over others. You can duel and lose your dorm seat to a more powerful mage, even if you trump them in terms of merit or leadership qualities. Students feel a sense of duty to obey those who have bested them in battle (ie Epel's servitude to Vil). Everyone fears Malleus. Your magical power is respected above all else.

Attitudes surrounding magic have notably shifted from fear of it several hundreds of years ago (around the human-fae war, back when “witch” and “wizard” were used in a derogatory sense) to recognizing it for its strengths and actively seeking it or granting some favoritism to those who have it. There is, in fact, now class discrimination in based on whether or not you can use magic. We got an early instance of this as early as book 1 of the main story, when Riddle insults Yuu for their "pitiful" education and states that they were clearly "born to parents with no great magical capability". It’s something that clearly rubs Ace, who has a magicless father, the wrong way, and he stands up for Yuu. There are other subtle hints about this divide sprinkled throughout the lore. For example, Ruggie has a voice line which he indicates that the slums where he comes from doesn’t produce many magic users. Again, recall that magic runs in bloodlines. This could potentially allude to a past where those without magic were forced into lower income neighborhoods, which results in pockets like Ruggie’s hometown with a high population of magicless individuals living in poverty. This doesn’t appear to be a large scale issue (perhaps its only an isolated case?), but this is worth paying attention to.

This could all translate into the professional world too. Some jobs are entirely locked behind magic (ie you just cannot do them or pursue them if you don't have the magical ability for it). Some jobs DO require magic (ie medical mages like Riddle's parents, magic police force officers, technomantic inventors, etc) and probably additional training that goes with it. As a result, I'd imagine that these magic-intensive jobs pay quite a bit more. There may also be overall more job opportunities for those capable of magic, since magic is so much more efficient than doing things by hand. The magic police force in particular are described as “elite” and members are REQUIRED to be mages or else you don’t qualify. It means more retention of wealth and/or more upward mobility for the few impoverished that are able to enter magic schools. (This is, of course, not including the few and far between cases of regular people who get rich in select industries, such as Kalim’s father.) Recall too that NRC requires its students to take internships during their 4th years, many placements being with very prestigious groups and organizations such as pro-sports teams, labs, tech giants, etc. Being able to attend a prestigious school with connections grants those elite students even more opportunities than the average person.

Then think about what this means for people who fall short of these standards that these magic schools set. We actually have examples of them in book 5 of the main story: when Deuce and Epel are reconciling on the beach, a bunch of delinquents from another school come along and start checking out Deuce’s borrowed magical wheel. Through the NPCs’ exchange, we learn that one of them has enough magic to power a magical wheel, but not enough to do much else. This NPC also couldn’t keep up in class and dropped out of a magic school. He then becomes insulted when Deuce implies he is “a beginner”, so this is obviously a very sore spot for him. Riddle also has dialogue that implies students dropped out of NRC prior to his reign (and since then, no Heartslabyul students have left). Additionally, consider how magic can be used to oppress and lord power over others. Deuce himself is guilty for summoning cauldrons to crush rival delinquents in fights back in Clock Town—even if those delinquents lacked magic themselves. Similarly, Epel is implied to use magic to gain an upper hand against those that bullied him back home. This all implies a social divide between those with magic and those without, and begs of bigger questions.

What happens to the ones that don’t make it? The ones that get left behind? The ones without the magic to make it “big”? This is the root of Fellow’s anger; he’s mad at a system that cast people like him (someone with very little magic) and Gidel (a non-mage) aside. They don’t get the opportunity to make better futures for themselves. They’re looked down on by high-up institutions that basically tell them they’re not good enough.

Knowing all of this, the deck appears to be stacked against the poor and non-mages. It’s no wonder why Fellow is so mad.

THIS ACTUALLY RELATES BACK TO WHAT ROLLO SAID IN 5-2 OF GLORIOUS MASQUERADE… "When you have too little [magic], you're resentful. And when you have plenty [of magic], you're arrogant. You can never content yourselves." The NRC boys are arrogant (this is the side of the story we’ve always known due to seeing the world mainly from their perspective). They are the “haves”, and we see them constantly misusing their power by fighting each other over very petty things (even if it’s against the rules to do so). But everyone else??? They’re scrounging for the scraps. Fellow falls into that former category; he IS the guy that’s resentful because of his lack of magic and how something he cannot control has already determined where he and Gidel will stand in life no matter how hard they work. They can never hope to rise out of poverty, and there’s nothing they can do about it. That must be soul-crushing.

When Fellow praises the NRC boys in that overly exaggerated way, he’s obviously being shady and facetious—however, there is also a kernel of truth behind this behavior. Most other NPCs we’ve met have spoken about the NRC boys favorably just because of their affiliation with a prestigious school. It’s the same way people might be impressed if you walked around in an Ivy League branded hoodie or something. People automatically associate you with the school’s shiny and exclusive reputation, and thus assume you are also intelligent, talented, etc. Then, in the same way being constantly put on a pedestal like this might result in the students getting swelled heads, this only further feeds into the NRC kids’ egos. They so privileged they don’t even recognize it. And that makes Fellow fucking FUME.

Look back at Fellow's dialogue. He is constantly mentioning the prestige of the school the boys go to, or adding on extra compliments about their status and skills. He's ass-kissing to his boss, who is also wealthy or part of the upper class, then insults the boss once he hangs up. Fellow is always in a position where he HAS to be subservient to the upper class in order to make his money and get by, and he finds that entirely unfair. Imagine having to simper and placate people you absolutely despise and blame for your problems every day, people who are gorging themselves on luxuries, coasting by in life, taking everything they have for granted while you get by on pennies—that has to get frustrating.

I want to briefly mention here that, in addition to praising the NRC students to high heaven, Fellow also talks down his own skills. He cheerfully calls himself a loser and says that no matter how much he trains, he could never reach their caliber of magic. Yes, Fellow is exaggerating to get the kids to think they’ve won, but I also have to wonder if he’s parroting the same phrases he was told long ago, from people who doubted him and never thought he’d make it. If that’s the case, then I get the sense that Fellow is in a way “reclaiming” his autonomy and power by adopting those same cruel words and using them as a strength. He admits to being “weak” but is also proud of the fact that he can utilize his magic along with his natural charisma to get a leg up over others. It further fuels his new belief that going to an elite school doesn’t matter, it’s practical skills that will serve you well.

Okay, back to talking about his shitty work situation! Fellow’s employer clearly doesn’t treat him with decency. They berate him, make unreasonable demands, act impatient, etc. They are a typical depiction of a toxic workplace and boss. This can also be read as shorthand for the relation between the rich and the poor, and how that may have shaped (or worsened) Fellow’s views on others of the privileged class. He makes many assumptions about the NRC students without really getting to know them, calling them entitled brats. Why? Because these descriptors likely apply to the higher-ups Fellow has always slaved away for. This, in combination with his own experiences in being rejected from magic academia, has created a person who feels trodden on by society and by the upper echelons who run it and benefit off the system.

Fellow himself is the perfect example of someone who was failed by said system. He has dialogue stating that he was never given the chance to learn because his magic was not considered strong enough. Still, he tried to make an effort to earn that chance among to elites and to study among them. Fellow was rejected, ridiculed, and told he had “forgotten his place”, what he had been born into. There were expectations he couldn’t meet, and so Fellow was thrown away like a broken toy. He has failed not because he didn’t try, but because he was denied the opportunity to begin with. This is where is rage stems from. Fellow despises the students of those same kinds of institutions who kicked him down, students who don’t realize how fortunate they are for their educations and will likely continue to perpetuate the system.

What, then, does that means for his signature spell, which is closely tied to one’s identity? Let’s take a magnifying glass to it. As previously mentioned, the name for Fellow’s spell is written as “Rose-Tinted Dream”, but it is said out loud as “Life is Fun”. The chant for it is, “Come on to the theater” (notably said in English rather than in Japanese). Both the spell and the incantation are references to the song Honest John sings in Pinocchio, Hi- Diddle-Dee-Dee. And… well, the whole UM in of itself is one big cruel joke given his circumstances now.

I think this spell is representative of a young Fellow still full of hopes and dreams, looking forward to studying at a magic school. But then those dreams are shattered and he has to commit terrible crimes to survive day-to-day, and he seems to have given up on his dreams. He even goes so far as to protect Gidel from having the same hopes he once did, telling Yuu to not put silly ideas in his head when Gidel expressed curiosity about school. At the same time, he delights in crushing the hopes of those he deems his enemies (stating that he wanted to betray Kalim to “teach him a lesson” about how cruel the world is). Fellow knows the truth: that life isn’t fun, that it will disappoint you and will put you down. His actions are very cowardly as well—he uses tricks and deception, he runs away from his problems instead of properly addressing them, the NRC students remark on his lack of pride. Fellow has had to throw away so much to scrape by. Yet his UM symbolizes someone brimming with hope—so perhaps it’s a UM he manifested when Fellow still thought he had a chance?? And then people made fun of him for it being so weak?? Alternatively, maybe he didn’t get his UM until after his dreams were crushed so he’s looking back on those nostalgic days of blissful ignorance with rose-colored lenses (which is, again, maybe why his UM magic name is written as “Rose Tinted Dream”). A UM that is a reflection of one’s true self, yet that same identity is one that has been forced to be discarded. That’s the reason why, despite all the swindling and scamming, I don’t think Fellow’s enthusiasm for fun is a lie. That’s the one “real” part of him, but even that’s been repurposed to help him live on scraps, something innocent twisted 😭 and that’s really sad to think about…

But also??? You could argue that Fellow still has a little bit of that lost inner child and hope left in him. He tries to defend Gidel’s understanding of the world and has goals of starting his own school despite how poorly he originally spoke about these institutions. (So Fellow does appear to care about children and their futures.) He also has a childish streak despite being an adult, demonstrated by his use of cowardly tactics, taunting kids, and abruptly quitting his job to then destroy his workplace. Fellow himself states that he “just tries to live a free and fun life”, thus his pursuit of money and pleasure. This could all play into being what defines Fellow and thus his UM. It embodies a spirit of playfulness even when he has been crushed under the weight of an unglamorous life.

I’ve heard people saying that while Rollo is Idia’s dark mirror and Fellow is Ruggie’s. They have similar backstories but ultimately their fates are different and left the former two down far more sinister paths. Just as Rollo is an Idia that turned his anger outward instead of inward, Fellow is Ruggie had he not been given a chance to receive an education to elevate his social status and job prospects. Fellow and Ruggie both cling to rich, powerful benefactors/bosses and do their dirty work to get on by—a big difference is that Leona, while he does also work Ruggie to the bone, also has some conscience. Something else to consider is that while Ruggie prioritizes making a life for himself by studying and securing a stable, well-paying job, Fellow is focused moreso on the accumulation of wealth itself (as he suggests to Kalim he’ll take a bribe to let him go free and quits when there is no longer money to be gained from his boss). Both don’t really care how they get their money (even if it is by dirty means), but ultimately Ruggie’s way of making cash is more sustainable in the long run. Yet Fellow ultimately realizes the importance of school deep down despite constantly denying it when the NRC students tell him of it. Fellow is in denial because that’s the only way he can cope and justify his lifestyle. He’s confused when finally confronted with students who are his ideal of “happy and free”, even when they’re in an educational system that he views as shackling people into strict roles. The way he laments about not being able to go to school is also very reminiscent of an adult mourning a lost or unfulfilling childhood, which is quite a depressing scenario…

Fellow is the one that got the short end of the stick in life. Ruggie met Leona, and Leona technically uplifted him in his endeavors, tutored him into getting decent grades and giving him hand-me-downs and money in exchange for his services. Fellow never had that kind of support system, he was just insulted and bullied into giving up and had to find an alternative way to keep himself going 😔

Personally, I think Fellow could also be a dark mirror to Kalim, no?? They exist on opposite ends of a social spectrum. Kalim has everything and Fellow had nothing. What’s more, Kalim is still wide-eyed and trusting. He is the only one willing to try words instead of fighting him and instantly labeling him as the enemy. Meanwhile, Fellow has become bitter because of how the world has betrayed him. He wants to take that trust Kalim has and show him how cruel everything truly is. Why is he fixated on that? Why even offer in the first place if he never intended on going through with it? Why does he want to rub it in Kalim’s face in particular? Maybe it’s because Kalim seems rich and dumb, as Fellow claims, but maybe it’s because there is envy there. Sure, Fellow is upset about Kalim being a sheltered brat that faces no challenges in life, but I also feel like he’s jealous that Kalim can still afford to think this way. That he can still afford to be cheerful, that he can still be a dreamer. Fellow was alluded to be like that once—but he can’t be like that anymore, not when he has to look out for himself and Gidel.

Side note, another comparison! Recall that Kalim’s Oasis Maker is also a UM that uses a little bit of magic. However, Kalim does not know of many creative ways to use his spell, as there is no real reason to since his home country has lots of canals and irrigation. He therefore deems his UM as pretty useless. Fellow meanwhile has what most consider a weak UM but he fully utilizes it to his advantage and pairs it well with his natural charm to maximize its effects. He had to develop these skills because he was in pressing circumstances in which they would benefit him. This contributes to the “mirror” theme between the two.

Fellow and Kalim have a notable similarity as well, and this is where I feel they can connect. They are both older brothers to a child or children who are magicless. Fellow only has one, and Kalim has many—but the number here isn’t what is important. What is important is that Fellow and Kalim think the world of their siblings and want to support them. To that end, Fellow is willing to be cruel and step on others, and Kalim is all sunshine to keep their spirits up. Fellow has suffered through great poverty and insults and Kalim has survived so many attempts on his life, yet they’ve developed distinctly different approaches to the worlds that have embraced them. Kalim’s wealth could afford him protection and luxuries, so he’s able to live carefree with others tending to his needs. The same isn’t true for Fellow, and so he came out far more spiteful and resentful.

Thinking about it, it’s ultimately Kalim’s words that convince Fellow to turn on his employer. (The other boys certainly wore Fellow down and planted the seeds of doubt, but it’s Kalim that I believe fully resonates with Fellow.) He can so happily talk about why he loves school, even though he doesn’t do well at it (something I presume is also true of Fellow, since he is lacking in tons of magic). It’s not said in a particularly articulate manner, but it’s so candid in its presentation. Kalim is relating to him based on similar skillset (or lack thereof) and sharing fond memories of his time at school, reviving the hopeful “lost child” in Fellow. Kalim is probably the first wealthy person in a long time that was friendly, kind, and supportive to him. And here he is, reassuring Fellow his dreams are still possible, to not give up. That’s the final nail that allows Fellow to be “honest” with himself and his inner child. It’s what leads to that slew of irresponsible actions at the end of the event (letting people free, blasting the amusement park, driving a sinking ship, etc.).

At the end of Stage in Playful Land, we see that Fellow never really let that childlike side of him fully die. (It seems to have been concealed under a desire for money and appeasing his boss.) He shares his dream of creating his own great school to give educational opportunities to non-mages and mages with low magical reserves like Gidel and himself, a school that teaches practical life lessons. He wants to promote his own ideals and to change the system he hates from the inside out. This was never communicated to us before most likely because Fellow had renounced those ideas in favor of blind hatred and a lack of faith in the world and those that dominate it.

Fellow also acknowledges that life may be even more difficult for him and Gidel going forward, as now they lack the money for even food and no longer have jobs. Furthermore, they need to worry about their ex-employers coming after them for what they’ve done. Even so, Fellow faces it all with a smile and reassures everyone that they can transfer or visit to play… “on this shining stage called life”. He and Gidel are able to walk away with their whimsy preserved, and can still be that which they’ve always wanted to be: dreamers.

All of this is to say that Rollo was right all along about magic, he never misses—

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fiddleyoumust · 5 months ago

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Let’s talk about queerness and High School Frenemy. There’s a large portion of BL fandom that refuses to engage with the show, and while that rubs me the wrong way, I do understand it. If you only wish to consume queer media, it’s easy to dismiss HSF since it is not explicitly queer. It’s also a show that on a surface level, looks like classic queerbaiting. And before I get a bunch of HSF fans in the tags or comments, I am a huge fan of this show. It is possibly the best thing I’ve watched all year. But on a surface level, it is doing the literal definition of queerbaiting even if I personally do not think it is.

As a person who is OLD and came of age in the 90s, I do want to talk about this show from a queer perspective. I grew up in a time when queer characters were not abundant. If they did show up in media, it was newsworthy. These characters were always support characters and seldom had love interests or explored what it was like to be queer. None of them looked like me or made me feel seen or represented. Heteronormativity was the standard, as it is today, but back then, a queer kid seldom encountered anything that made them question that heteronormativity.

HSF, and Shin and Saint specifically, resonate with me more than most queer media I’ve consumed, and I’ve consumed a lot. The intense, obsessive love that Shin and Saint have for each other under the guise of friendship IS my story. For me, it was a wild girl named Jennifer, who I was attached to the hip with from 6th grade until our early twenties. I loved her. I was obsessed with her. I was probably in love with her, but it never occurred to me until years after we’d stopped speaking that what I felt for her was more than friendship. The heteronormative brainworms are real, and they infected me until my late 20s when I suddenly had a revelation about myself.

Hindsight is 20/20. Suddenly, my obsession with Charlize Theron in Two Days In The Valley, Helen Hunt in Twister (1996), and Kate Winslet in Titanic made so much sense. My relationship with Jennifer was also at the forefront of my mind. Ah, I thought. That’s what that was.

HSF is a show about friendship, a show about community, a show about the ways adults fail their children, a show about class and poverty. It is also a show about unrealized queerness. The director, Fon, told that story purposefully through music, lighting, and dialogue, she told a story about two boys who can’t live without each other, but don’t have the knowledge, the vocabulary, or the self-awareness to understand what they are to each other.

In every choice Fon made, she dangled queerness without explicitly naming it. I would call it queerbaiting in any other media, but for me, she made one other choice that I believe is purposeful and elevates this show into the queer category for me. She completely stripped the show of heteronormativity. There are no couples. None. We never see Chatjen’s parents. Any parents we do see are single - Ken’s father, Shin’s mother, Saint’s father, Cable’s mother.

In any other media, the male and female homeroom teachers with clashing teaching styles would be an enemies-to-lovers side plot. Here, they grow into supportive co-workers and friends who become better versions of themselves to help the children in their class. In any other media, there would be talk of crushes among the teenagers. Here, we see them grapple with the pressures of academia, abusive or absentee parents, bullying, drugs, and the hopelessness of poverty. In fact, the only mention of sexuality or romance at all comes from Eve, a girl who befriends Airy, a girl from their rival school, and confesses that she had a crush on her when she was younger. Nothing comes of this revelation, even though we see Airy become curious and seek out Eve’s company prior to this revelation, and we see how pleased Airy is about Eve’s confession. But this is a show about unrealized queerness and even Eve and Airy, two girls who understand what they are feeling for one another, still can’t bring themselves to name it.

The lack of heterosexuality creates a void that is filled by Shin and Saint’s relationship. It’s purposeful, and Director Fon uses other friendships in the show to highlight the ways Shin and Saint are not the same. Knot, Nate, and Ken are extremely close friends. They, too, have a “no one left behind” friendship pact. They fight for each other and get hurt for each other and very obviously love each other. Chatjen and Shin’s friendship is also very deep. Chatjen considers Shin his best friend. He hero worships him a bit and sees him as his protector and savior. Yet, anyone watching can understand the ways the producers use music, lighting, costuming, and dialogue to elevate Shin and Saint’s relationship above all the other ones.

High School Frenemy is queer. Shin and Saint are purposefully queer coded in a world devoid of heterosexuality. You are seeing what you are supposed to see, and it's a hill I’ll die on. If you were on the fence about this show, I can not recommend it enough. It’s great and will leave you feeling warm and happy and loved. If you only consume explicitly queer media, I still encourage you to watch it. Sometimes, our queerness eludes us. Sometimes it’s hidden under other words like “friendship” because we haven’t learned the right words for it yet. I enjoyed watching a show that reminded me of my youth and gave me a glimpse of the girl I used to be. She was still queer even if she didn't know it yet.

#high school frenemy #high school frenemy the series #shin x saint #saint x shin #saintshin #shinsaint #meta

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lorelune · 2 years ago

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(minors dni & ageless blogs dni /// inspired by this post and brainworms with @petrichorium)

"dear?" neuvillette asks. you're sprawled out on his chaise lounge, reading today's issue of the steambird. you're distracted.

"yes?"

"what exactly does it mean if you're 'wet'?"

you smile at him sweetly from across his office, "... come again?"

he looks overwhelmingly serious. though he does, occasionally, toss a joke or two into his daily conversations, it's rare. you know the look he wears when he does so. and in this moment? he looks completely sincere.

"if you are wet, the meaning, please. i believe you should know?"

"i-i mean," you laugh. "neuvillette, love, dearest— are you... being entirely serious?"

"yes."

"ah, alright." your lover is the current incarnation of the hydro draconic primordial, but regardless. "to be damp. moist. covered in liquid, probably water?"

neuvillette brow scrunches. then relaxes after a moment and he shakes his head. the soft, curved horns that curl into his hair tremble with the motion. he smiles and shakes his head, shutting the book he'd be paging through. you catch a glimpse of the cover and— oh.

everything comes together.

"A Seaman's Conquest: The River's Maiden and Jewel" is the latest erotic novel by the quietly-famed 'Épée Honnête'. you recognized the cheesy art on the novel, and the flourishing text. you've read one or two of the author's works, but in the quiet and private of your own home. stashed atop each other in your nightstand, with a seldom-used vial soft oil. their prose is a... bit over the top. but they're also a sensation.

you have to wonder how and why neuvillette, of all people, is reading the book (and by your brief look, seems to be about half-way through it.) it is not the kind of thing he'd pick up himself— you've never seen neuvillette reading anything other than case files and evidence prior. yet apparently he's been ripping into erotica. right under your nose.

which explains his question.

"o-oh!" you swallow. "you mean wet like—"

"yes."

you squeeze your thighs together.

much to your initial surprise, neuvillette had incredibly limited experience when it came to bodily pleasure. intimacy in and of itself is something that he clearly yearns for, but perhaps does not know how to convey. you're not sure if neuvillette, in all his stature, could ever truly be bumbling, but he gets close to it with physicality.

he's careful. an incredibly fast learner but bent on taking his time, being thorough— meaning that most of your physical encounters are kissing under both of your lips are bruised and slick. you know that neuvillette feels aroused in those moments; the hard press of his clothed cock nudged up to you is proof of it. and you're turned on in those moments— horribly. you've soaked through your panties on more than one occasion. he makes you so— wet.

"wet is like... female arousal." you say simply, steeling yourself. you'll jump him otherwise.

"it this makes you... wet? is this like perspiration?"

"no, no. not at all. not really." you shake your head with a laugh. "it's like. slick? f-from my insides. it's lubrication for intercourse, to be entirely clinical about it."

"... but it's indicative of arousal?"

"entirely." you nod, trying to focus on the case file in front of you. your eyes have skimmed the same line three times.

neuvillette pauses and your hear a flutter of pages before his 'A Seaman's Conquest' closes once more, "have i made you wet before?"

you swallow. get ahold of yourself.

"yes. frequently."

"hm." neuvillette hums and his chair creaks as he sits back. he picks up his silver goblet and swirls it. the gem on it's side refracts the warm glow of the office light, dragging your gaze to his.

he's looking at you— hungry. perhaps something else. something insatiable.

"i want to know more." he tells you. rises. walk toward you with the defined click of his heeled boots on the hardwood fo the floor. "i feel as if i was missing something important without this knowledge. and there's more to be understood."

"well, ask away. i'm an open book." you tell him, craning your neck to meet his eyes.

"may i make a request?"

"of course."

"i..." neuvillette swallows around his words. you drag him onto the lounge with you and lean into his shoulder. moral support and all.

"it's fine if you don't know quite what to ask. or what you want." you assure him. you'll eat up anything he gives you, really.

"i know exactly what i want, it's a matter of phrasing."

"oh, yeah?" you wonder if he's nervous about you not understanding his desires. or if he's worried about being too blunt or forward.

you tilt your head back until neuvillette coaxes you down into his lap. his hand, gloved hand, smooths down your jaw. his fingertips trail down your neck, pressing into your curves and divots. bones and flesh alike. it's exploratory.

neuvillette touch slips down your collar, to bare skin. you shudder. "i'm curious."

"y-yeah? seems like you are."

he laughs, gentle and under his breath. his palm cups your cheek, soothing and kind. with a tilt of his head:

"i'd like to make you wet with my touch, and then taste you."

he says it hushed; it's just meant for you and you alone to hear. the intention of it makes you feel crazy, out of your skin. the look he's pinning you with. the ability he wields while being entirely sincere is going to undo you.

you swallow, a little sound sticking in the back of your throat. you squeeze your thighs together and close your eyes, "neuvillette, you're killing me here."

"am i?" there's a hint of a tease in his voice. you want to coax out more of it. you try and bury your face in his hip, but he doesn’t let you. he drag your chin straight and holds his thumb over the swell of your bottom lip.

"yes, y-you are." you mean to sound firm about it. but it comes out as a whine.

"so precious." he says softly, adoring. his thumb presses in into your mouth and runs along your teeth, into your gums. "would you like if i tasted you too?"

"fuck, neuvillette—" your words get muffled as his fingers press into your mouth further. he presses down on your tongue, the scent of clean leather and his gentle personal cologne almost suffocate it. you welcome it.

"is that a yes?"

you try to reply, but your words don't come out— his fault— so you only nod. perhaps too enthusiastically, but neuvillette doesn't seem to mind. his lips curl into a gentle smile, and he strokes over your cheeks. his only hand trails lower, finding home on your inner thigh.

"are you wet now?"

"'pworably—"

"cute." he says again. he still looks hungry. like he's going to eat you alive. there's an appetite in him, even if he doesn't know what it fully is or what to do with it. it seems, it really seems, like he's learning it. "may i find out—?"

"Monsieur Neuvillette!" The sharp crack of knocking on the door interrupts him as he leers over you. It's Laith, on the Seven— "the court time is within a half hour. do you require an escort?"

his grip on your thigh tightens. almost to point of hurting, but in the best way. you know you're wet now.

"no, laith, i will be alright on my own. i will be departing shortly."

"the prosecution's attorney sent over some last minute evidence files and requested i deliver them as well." the knob of the door starts to shift and you almost bolt up and away. neuvillette places his spit-covered hand on your chest to brace you down.

"i do not require the documents at this time. have them prepared for me at the opera epiclese."

the knob slips back into place, "of course, Monsieur. i'll see that they're delivered."

steps echo away from the door and you exhale a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding, "awful timing."

"unfortunate." neuvillette sighs. "truly unfortunate."

his duty is paramount. you know this as he helps you to stand and as he straightens your close. he's being more dutiful about it than he could be, given his next court time is so close. you relish it.

"... are you wet?"

"right now?" you feel sticky in a way that's a bit cold now. you press your forehead to his lips in a quiet beg for a steadying kiss. he relents easily and gives it to you. "yes. you have that effect on me."

neuvillette takes a steadying breath and squeezes around your shoulders, "i apologize for the timing of things, but—"

"i know." you tell him. "it's okay. besides, i have fingers and some toys at home. you've given me new material to work with."

"... you think about me when you're pleasuring yourself?" he blinks at you, eyes wide. you can't help but smirk.

"consistently." you nod and beam at him. "often. basically every time. i haven't even seen your cock but my mind's eye has come up with some creative theories and visual concepts."

that gets him to blush, a high, pearly pink that's almost purple. it fades into his hairline.

"this is going to be a particularly difficult court session."

"i can only imagine. is it my fault?"

"only partially." neuvillette assures you with no bite. "perhaps blame wriothesley for that book he lent me. he insisted i read it and get back to him for a review."

"huh."

you could lose it. really. wriothesley is a bastard. you should punch him. or kiss him— except you've grown from those days and you haven't seen that busted-lip smile of his in years. nice to know he's still doing you favors. you should send him an edible arrangement.

"and myself, too. thoughts to entertain at home, and not at the office."

"perhaps, perhaps." you tell him. you don't mind. you brush your lips to his cheek.

"would you visit me, after court?" who knows when that will be. you don't really care. you have a key, afterall.

"of course." you'll have tea prepared. perhaps sex education flashcards. maybe. or you'll break out the lacey slip that's been seldom-touched since purchase and surprise him. who knows. the world's your oyster.

and as you walk with neuvillette out of the palais mermonia and see him off on one of the aquabuses, you catch it in him again. in the almost-longing gaze he sends you as he departs, you see it. something awakening. old and new all at once in him. directed at you. he's famished. or, perhaps—

thirsty.

#lore writes #water tasting master neuvillette's finds his new favorite drink :3cc #neuvillette x reader #neuvillette x you #neuvillette reader insert #drabbles #ANYWAYS #clorinde is Épée Honnête btw :3ccc #slightly virginal inquisitive kind neuvillette #MEOOW

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taradactyls · 1 month ago

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So I could be totally wrong but, I believe it was sort of expected that men/gentlemen lose their virginity before marriage in regency times. But I also there’s some fandom ‘debate’ about whether or not Mr Darcy would’ve had sex before getting married. So I was just curious about what your canon for Mr Darcy in T3W is. Is he a virgin or not?

I knew someone would ask me this eventually, haha. I've actually had really long conversations with my beta reader about this trying to figure it out. It sounds like this might all be stuff that you’ve already seen discussed in the fandom, but I’ve never thought about it deeply before and so these are new thoughts to me.

I keep going over the historical real-world likelihood, the authorial intent, and the text itself but I’m still not 100%. I’ll explain my thinking and what I find most likely, but here’s your warning that it’s not a clear cut yes/no.

Because on one hand, at that time period it was most common for men in his position to have seen sex workers or have casual encounters/mistresses with women from their estates. Though I do absolutely believe not all men did that, no matter how much wealth and power they had. To go back some centuries, William the Conqueror seemed to be famously celibate (no hints of male lovers either according to the biography I read) until his marriage, and there's no evidence of affairs after it either. The best guesses as to why are that it was due to his religious devotion and the problems that had arisen from himself being a bastard and not wanting to recreate that situation. Concerns over religion and illegitimate children would certainly still have been applicable in the regency to men who thought that way. And in modern times I've seen sex workers say that when an 18/21yo is booked in by his family/friends to 'become a man' often they end up just talking and agree to lie about the encounter. After all, it’s not like every man wants casual sex, even if they aren’t demisexual or something in that vein. But, statistically speaking, the precedent of regency gentlemen would make Darcy not a virgin.

On the other hand, just how aware was Jane Austen, the very religious daughter of a country rector, of the commonness of this? There’s a huge difference between knowing affairs and sex workers existed (and no one who had seen a Georgian newspaper could be blind to this) and realising that the majority of wealthy men saw sex workers at some point even if they condemned the more public and profligate affairs. The literature for young ladies at the time paints extramarital sex - including the lust of men outside of marriage - as pretty universally bad and dangerous. This message is seen from 'Pamela' and other gothic fiction to non-fiction conduct books which Jane Austen would have encountered. Here's something I found in 'Letters to a Young Lady' by the reverend John Bennett which I found particularly interesting as it's in direct conversation with other opinions of the era:

"A reformed rake makes the best husband." Does he? It would be very extraordinary, if he should. Besides, are you very certain, that you have power to reform him? It is a matter, that requires some deliberation. This reformation, if it is to be accomplished, must take place before marriage. Then if ever, is the period of your power. But how will you be assured that he is reformed? If he appears so, is he not insidiously concealing his vices, to gain your affections? And when he knows, they are secured, may he not, gradually, throw off the mask, and be dissipated, as before? Profligacy of this kind is seldom eradicated. It resembles some cutaneous disorders, which appear to be healed, and yet are, continually, making themselves visible by fresh eruptions. A man, who has carried on a criminal intercourse with immoral women is not to be trusted, His opinion of all females is an insult to their delicacy. His attachment is to sex alone, under particular modifications.

The definition of a rake is more than a man who has seen a sex worker once, it's about appearance and general conduct too, but again, would that distinction be made to young ladies? Because they seem to simply be continuously taught 'lust when unmarried is bad and beware men who you know engage in extramarital sex.' As a side note, Jane Austen certainly knew at least something about the mechanics of sex: her letters and literature she read alludes to it, and she grew up around farm animals in the countryside which is an education in itself.

We can also see from this exert that the school of thought seems to be 'reformed rake' vs 'never a rake' in contention for the title of best husband, there's no debate over whether a current rake is unsuitable for a young lady. And, from Willoughby to Wickham to Crawford, I think we have a very clear idea of Jane Austen's ideas of how likely it is notably promiscuous men can reform. This does not preclude the possibility that her disparaging commentary around their lust is based more on over-indulgence or the class of women they seduce, but it's undoubtedly a condemnation of such men directly in line with the first part of what John Bennett says so it's no stretch to believe she saw merit in the follow-on conclusions of the second part as well. Whether she would view it with enough merit to consider celibacy the only respectable option for unmarried men is a bit unclearer.

I did consider that perhaps Jane Austen consciously treated this as a grey area where she couldn’t possibly know what young men did (the same reasoning is why we never see the men in the dining room after the ladies retire, etc) and so didn't hold an opinion on men's extramarital encounters with sex workers/lower-class women at all, but I think there actually are enough hints in her works that this isn’t the case. Though, unsurprisingly, given the delicacy of the subject, there’s no direct mention of sex workers or gentlemen having casual lovers from among the lower-classes in her texts.

That also prevents us from definitively knowing whether she thought extramarital sex was so common, and as unremarkable, as most gentlemen treated it. But we do see from her commentary around the consequences of Maria Bertram and Henry Crawford's elopement that she had criticism of the double standards men and women were held to when violating sexual virtue. Another indication that she perhaps expected good men to be capable of waiting until marriage in the way that she very clearly believed women should. At the very least, a man who often indulges in extramarital sex does not seem to be one who would be considered highly by Jane Austen.

She makes a point of saying, in regards to not liking his wife, that Mr Bennet “was not of a disposition to seek comfort for the disappointment which his own imprudence had brought on, in any of those pleasures which too often console the unfortunate for their folly or their vice.” This must include affairs, though cheating on a wife cannot be a 1:1 equivalent of single young men sleeping around before marriage. However, the latter is generally critically accepted to be one of the flaws that Darcy lays at Wickham’s door along with gambling when talking about their youth and his “vicious propensities" and "want of principle." Though this could be argued that it’s more the extent or publicity of it (but remembering that it couldn't be anything uncommon enough that it couldn't be hidden from Darcy Sr. or explained away) rather than the act itself, or maybe seductions instead of paying women offering those services. I also believe Persuasion mentioning Sunday travelling as proof of thoughtless/immoral activity supports the idea that Jane Austen might have been religious enough that she would never create a hero who had extramarital sex.

So, taken all together this would make Darcy potentially a virgin, or, since I couldn't find absolute evidence of her opinions, leave enough room that he isn’t but extramarital sex isn’t a regular (or perhaps recent) thing and he would never have had anything so established as a mistress.

I’ve also been wondering, if Darcy isn’t a virgin, who would he have slept with? I’ve been musing on arguments for and against each option for weeks at this point. No romantasy has ever made me think about a fictional man's sexual habits so much as the question of Darcy's sexual history. What is my life.

Sex workers are an obvious answer, and the visits wouldn’t have raised any eyebrows. Discretion was part of their job, it was a clean transaction with no further responsibilities towards them, and effective (and reusable, ew) condoms existed at this time so there was little risk of children and no ability to exactly determine the paternity even if there was an accident. It was a fairly ‘responsible’ choice if one wanted no strings attached. In opposition to this, syphilis was rampant at the time, and had been known to spread sexually for centuries. Sex workers were at greater risk of it than anyone else and so the more sensible and risk-averse someone is (and I think Mr Darcy would be careful) the less likely they would be to visit sex workers. Contracting something that was known as potentially deadly and capable of making a future wife infertile if it spread to her could make any intelligent and cautious man think twice.

Servants and tenants of the estate are another simple and common answer. Less risk of stds, it can be based on actual attraction more than money (though money might still change hands), and is a bit more intimate. But Wickham’s called wicked for something very similar, when he dallies (whether he only got to serious flirting, kissing, or sleeping with them I don’t think we can conclusively say) with the common women of Meryton: “his intrigues, all honoured with the title of seduction, had been extended into every tradesman's family.” And it isn't as though Wickham had any personal duty towards those people beyond the claims of basic dignity. Darcy, who is shown to have such respect and understanding for his responsibilities towards the people of his estate and duties of a landlord, would keenly feel if any of his actions were leading his servants/tenants astray and down immoral paths. Servants, especially, were considered directly under the protection of the family whose house they worked in. I think it's undoubtable that Mrs Reynolds (whose was responsible for the wellbeing - both physically and spiritually - of the female servants) would not think so well of Mr Darcy if he had experimented with maids in his youth. It would reflect badly on her if a family entrusted their daughter to her care and she 'lost her virtue' under her watch. Daughters/widows of others living on the estate not under the roof of Pemberley House are a little more likely, but still, if he did have an affair with any of them I can only think it possible when he was much younger and did not feel his duties quite so strongly. Of course lots of real men didn't care about any of this, but Darcy is so far from being depicted as careless about his duties that the narrative makes a point of how exceptional his quality of care was. Frankly, it's undeniable that none of Jane Austen's heroes were flippant about their responsibilities towards those under their protection. I cannot serious entertain an interpretation that makes Darcy not, at his current age, at least, cognizant of the contemporary problems inherent in sleeping with servants or others on his estate.

A servant in a friend’s house would remove some of that personal responsibility, but transfer it to instead be leading his friend’s servants astray and in a manner which he is less able to know about if a child did result. That latter remains a problem even if we move the setting to his college, so not particularly likely for his character as we know it… though it wouldn’t be unusual for someone to be more unthinking and reckless in their teenage years than they are at twenty-eight so I don’t think having sex then can be ruled out. Kissing I can much more easily believe, especially when at Oxford or Cambridge, but every scenario of sleeping with a lower-class woman has some compelling arguments against it especially the closer we get to the time of the novel.

Men did of course also have affairs with women of ranks similar to their own, though given Jane Austen’s well-known feelings towards men who ‘ruined’ the virtue of young ladies we can safely say that Darcy never slept with an unwed middle- or upper-class woman. Any decent man would have married them out of duty if it got so far; but if he was the sort to let it get so far, I think it impossible Jane Austen would consider him respectable. Widows are a possibility, but again, the respectable thing to do would be to marry them. Perhaps a poorer merchant’s widow would be low enough that marriage is off the table but high enough that the ‘leading astray’ aspect loses its master-servant responsibilities (though the male-female ‘protect the gentler sex’ aspect remains) but his social circle didn’t facilitate meeting many ladies like that. Plus, an affair with a woman in society would remove many layers of privacy and anonymity that sex-workers and lower-class lovers provided by simply being unremarkable to the world at large. It carries a far greater risk of scandal and a heavier sense of immorality in the terms of respecting a woman’s purity which classism prevented from applying so heavily to lower-class women.

I think it’s important to note here that something that removes the need to think about duties of landlords towards the lower-classes or gentlemen towards gentlewomen is having affairs with other men of a similar rank. But, aside from the risk of scandal and what could be called the irresponsibility of engaging in illegal acts, it’s almost certain that Jane Austen would never have supported this. For a devout author in this era the way I’m calculating likelihoods makes it not even a possibility. But if you want to write a different fanfiction (and perhaps something like a break-up could explain why Darcy doesn’t seem to have any closer friend than someone whom he must have only met two or so years ago despite being in society for years before that) it does have that advantage over affairs with women of equal- and lower-classes. I support alternate interpretations entirely – it just isn’t how I’m deciding things in this instance.

I keep coming back to the conclusion that, at the very least, Darcy hasn’t had sex recently and it was never a common occurrence. It wouldn’t surprise me if Jane Austen felt he hadn’t done it ever. Kissing, as we can see from all the parlour games at the time, wasn’t viewed as harshly, so I think he’s likely made out with someone before. But in almost every situation it does seem that the responsible and religious thing to do (which Jane Austen values so highly) is for it to never have progressed to sex. I also don’t think it conflicts with his canon characterisation to say that he wouldn’t regard sexual experience as a crucial element of his life thus far, and his personality isn’t driven to pursue pleasure for himself, so it’s entirely possible that he would never go out of his way to seek it. So, I’m inclined to think that the authorial and textual evidence is in favour of Darcy being a virgin even if the real-world contemporary standard is the opposite. (Though both leave enough room for exceptions that I’m not going to argue with anyone who feels differently; and even if you agree with all my points, you might simply weight authorial intent/textual evidence/contemporary likelihoods differently than I do and come to a different conclusion).

Remember that even if Darcy is a virgin this wouldn’t necessarily equate to lack of knowledge, only experience. There were plenty of books and artwork focused on sex, and Darcy, studious man that he is, would no doubt pay attention to what knowledge his friends/male relatives shared. Though some of it (Looking especially at you, 'Fanny Hill, Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure') should NEVER be an example of appropriate practice for taking a woman's virginity. Darcy would almost certainly have been taught directly or learnt through exposure to other men talking to make sex good for a woman – it was a commonly held misconception (since Elizabethan England, I believe) that women had to orgasm to conceive. It would be in his interests as an empathetic husband, and head of a family, to know how to please his wife.

Basically, I’m convinced Darcy isn’t very experienced, if at all, and will be learning with Elizabeth. But he does have a lot of theoretical knowledge which he’s paid careful attention to and is eager to apply.

#sorry for how my writing jumps around from quoting sources to vaguely asserting things from the books I only write proper essays when forced #if anyone has evidence that Austen thought a sexually experienced husband was better/men needed sex/it's a crucial education for men/etc #PLEASE send it my way I'm so curious about this topic now #this is by no means an 'I trawled through every piece of evidence' post just stuff I know from studying the era and Austen and her work #so more info/evidence is always appreciated #I had sort of assumed the answer was 'not a virgin' when I first considered this months ago btw but the more I thought about it #the less I was able to find out when/where/who he would've slept with without running into some authorial/textual complication #so suddenly 'maybe a virgin' becomes increasingly likely #But the same logic would surely apply to ALL Austen's heroes... and Knightley is 38 which feels unrealistic #(though Emma doesn't have as much commentary on sex and was written when Austen was older so maybe she wasn't so idealistic about men then)#but authors do write unrealistic elements and it's entirely possible that *this* was something Austen thought a perfect guy would(n't) do #and if you've read my finances breakdowns you know I follow the text and authorial voice over real-world logic because it IS still fiction #no matter how deftly Austen set it in the real world and made realistic characters #pride and prejudice #jane austen #fitzwilliam darcy #mr darcy #discourse #austen opinions #mine #asks #fic:t3w #I'm going to need a tag for 'beneath the surface' but 'bts' is already a pretty popular abbreviation haha #just 'fic: beneath' maybe?? idk

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tora-ken · 5 months ago

Text

. 𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒

.pairings gojo satoru x gn!reader

.genre nonsorcerer!au, angst, unhealthy relationship

.ongoing | complete

.tw cursing, gojo clearly needs help, mentions of death, alcohol

.wc 4.3k

SUMMARY — In the July heat, Satoru is a glass of ice cold water, there to refresh you. In the December chill, he’s a bittersweet memory that tugs at your heartstrings.

reblogs are appreciated!

It was a warm summer's night meeting Gojo Satoru, yet it felt like the winter blazed upon your heart as he glared at you with his piercing eyes, intimidated by his stare. The heat of July 13th could not melt the ice protecting the shackles of Gojo Satoru’s heart and it was obvious from your first encounter.

On the contrary, you came into Satoru’s life like a breath of fresh air you didn't know you needed. His shoulders seemed to relax from their tensed state, and his teeth would no longer grit as he registered your existence beside him. But it could not satiate the clenching feeling in his heart when he stared down at the headstone in front of him.

–

“I’m so sorry, I didn't mean to-"

It was cliché, your encounter. The classic coffee incident, who knew that the two most unpredictable people to live in Japan would have the most foreseeable romance of all time.

"It’s alright, I wasn't paying attention."

You paid him back for his shirt and the jelly stick in his hands as an apology, to which he seemed to accept gleefully. Cute. You thought.

A month was how long it took for him to kiss you on your seventh date. Rather than the stories telling you the butterflies in your stomach finally fluttering, or the fires set alight in your heart, there was peace, and tranquility within the depths of your stomach, the swirling feeling no longer in movement.

Pulling away from him, heavy breaths, and rosy cheeks you smile, laughing as he cups your face and pulls you into his embrace once again.

"You're so cute, Y/N."

Nine months, and he asks you to move in with him.

"Satoru, aren't we going a bit fast?"

"I'm sorry, it's just, you make me so happy."

That seemed to be enough reason for you to pack all of your bags, and move into his apartment in upstate Tokyo.

–

You grew uncomfortable in his presence the first night you moved in. He felt like a new person. The swirl within your stomach intensifying each second, and you felt nauseous. Who was this man you met all those months back in July?

"Toru, I’m sorry, it's just slippers I didn't know-"

"Well they're not yours. Fuck off and get your own."

Being his partner, you assumed that he bought those for you as some sort of housewarming gift, to get comfortable in the place on your first night, whilst it was actually the down side of your relationship.

He had a partner a few years ago, that he seemed to not be completely over, and you had fit their exact description appearance wise. But you would never be them, hell you didn't even know him back then. And it's not like you were ever going to find this out from him, it was the little things.

It grew from scolding to comparison, "Why can't you be like Yuki?" "Yuki never did this when we were together" "That’s not how Yuki does it." and you grew tired of it.

Your heart burned every second as he left the house more frequently, coming back later than scheduled, with tears stained into his shirt, and red tainted into his sclera. Living with him grew to be a chore, and the couch became more comfortable than the confines of his arms where he would whisper a name that wasn't yours.

You acknowledged that you were hurting yourself in this ill-fated relationship, but enjoyed the validation he had served you so seldom. The peppering of his kisses in the rise of the sun, and the moments where you would lock eyes as you brushed your teeth together at night, and interlocking hands as you went grocery shopping.

Pulling you back by the waist became a habit, and Satoru’s limbs felt empty without a presence that was familiar to Yuki’s, or rather a face. He was unaware of the agony he had afflicted upon you before entering the relationship with his toxic baggage.

As selfish as he was, your presence slowly pieced into his schedule like it was always meant to be there, and a day without it felt like a void that could only be indulged with the stimulating comfort of alcohol and cigarettes. subsequently, it brought out an unattractive aspect of his personality, torturing you emotionally according to his own pleasures or until he was tired and expected you to put him back to bed.

–

Eighteen months was how long it took for you to finally pack your things and leave. You were fed up with waiting for him to realise he had been hurting you, fed up with waiting for his apologies, or the deserved explanations as to why he kept you around like a toy.

Upon meeting his friends, you grew the closest to Nanami, who finally had the guts to explain to you that Satoru's previous partner, Yuki, had died in a car accident on their four year anniversary.

–

"You know, I think you were his next big thing." Taking a sip from his glass, Nanami stares at the light he turned on from the torch on his phone.

"...big thing?"

"You’re the first serious relationship he's had since...I’d rather not."

"Then why would you bring it up?" You couldn't understand his logic, if he never wanted to speak about it in the first place why would he leave you hanging like that?

"It’s just, I think it's best to hear it from Gojo himself."

"He’s barely home, why do you think I'm here right now?" Sighing languidly, you slouch in your seat staring up at the white ceiling.

"Fine. But don't tell him I told you, I’m only saying this because you deserve to know." He exhales deeply, as if to prepare for a big speech. "About four years ago, Gojo’s last partner died in an accident on their anniversary, after that he didn't date or do anything for that matter, for a long time. Until he met you. I think you make him happy, we haven't seen him like this in a while."

A twisting sensation grew its way up your stomach to your chest, as pieces connect, you finally understood why he was so flagrant in his distaste towards you when you committed a sin as grave as wearing a pair of slippers that were never yours.

"I don't think it's me that makes him happy."

"Do you want me to be honest?" He pushes on, staring at the drink before him.

"...Yeah."

"You look an awful lot like them."

And the twisting soon melted into an ache, so familiar and reminiscent of your feelings when you would stare at his eyes with adoration and notice the emptiness in his looking at yours.

You scoffed. You acknowledged that Nanami was trying to sympathise or make you feel better these days, but it took a turn for the worse. Satoru made you feel like a rebound, as if you were just a speck of dust in a dirty room, a second in his time of life to which he was going to waste. One like any other. In the end, he would never love you the way you loved him, because he was still mourning.

His honesty should've stayed a mystery – your curiosity should've never delved past the limit Satoru had set from the day you moved in.

You were a sign screaming for help from the man who held you by his side at night, had waited for someone to swoop in and save him from the clutches you never meant to keep him under.

"I understand." And you left.

–

“I’ll see be home late today, I’m having a couple drinks with Suguru and Shoko.” Satoru presses a chaste kiss on your lips as you make him his morning brew, with extra sugar as he always likes it. He grabs the mug and gives you another kiss. “Thank you, baby.”

He was in an awfully good mood. “Alright, be safe on your way home, just text me when you guys are going home, I can pick you up from the bar.” Your mind races back to the conversation you had with Nanami a few days prior.

Satoru nods, before taking one last gulp of his coffee, washes the dish quickly and grabs whatever else he needed for work that day. “I’ll text you later, love you!”

You smile weakly, and mutter a “You too”. The door slams shut, and you sigh in relief, before your legs give out, recollecting everything that had happened with Nanami, giving yourself time to process everything.

There was a conflict between your mind and your heart, each battling for different paths. Your mind fighting so defensively for a future that doesn’t involve living a life where Satoru doesn't have to leave your heart in shambles every time he looks at you in longing, a sad, grieving, mourning longing. A life without him.

But as torturous your feelings were, your heart kept you within close proximity with Satoru, thinking that one day, some day, you could reach out to him, and finally make him realise he was yours. Not Yuki's, but yours. Your heart fought for a future where that was possible, driving your every move and word for Satoru to lead you to that potential moment.

You were already halfway there, living with him, breathing with him, calling him yours, exchanging "I love you's", albeit they may not be entirely true on his part, but you were halfway there. There was just one more push needed, whether it be from you or him.

And you chose your heart. You chose Satoru. As you always do.

11:44pm

toru <3: bbay come het me pla

you: alright.

Arriving at the bar Satoru laid red, and intoxicated, his head resting on his forearm, muttering mindless words to himself, as Geto waited uninterestedly beside him. "Come on, Y/N's here."

Satoru's ears prick up at the mention of you, and he cheeses, the red deepening on his inebriated cheekbones. "My love, there you hic- are." Arms outstretched towards you, and you take one of them and lay them around your shoulder as you send Suguru an apologetic look.

"Hey, thanks for waiting with him Geto. How much did he drink?" You question, as your boyfriend lolls his head in a circle, and comes to rest beside your neck, his breath fanning against your ear, and the stench of alcohol wafts its way to you.

"A few pints of beer, as you can see. He's never been great at holding his alcohol." Geto rolls his eyes.

"Clearly." You chuckle, "Sorry for taking so long, are you okay? Do you want a ride back to yours?"

"Nah, it's cool, Shoko's waiting in the car for me, thanks though. I'll see you 'round."

"Bye." You wave, and you stare back down at Satoru, whispering little nothings to himself again. "Come on, home time, Toru."

"Heck yeah, Home Time Toru!" He exclaims, before dragging his feet as you struggle to carry his weight to the car.

Driving home, Satoru mumbles the whole car ride, humming along to the music every few minutes or so until you finally pull into the parking spot outside your apartment.

He attaches himself to your waist as you drag him through the entrance of your apartment, and flings himself onto the sofa in your living space.

“You’re so sweet…” His slurs reverberates through a pillow, just loud enough for you to hear. Heartwarming, you feel as his words creep up to your chest and you smile to yourself.

“Have some water, here.” Bringing a cup towards his lips, he puckers up and takes a sip, before sighing deeply.

“Why does it have to be you.” An eerie atmosphere engulfs itself in the four corners of the walls, and he stares at you in anguish, possibly hatred. “I hate that it’s you picking me up when I’m out, making me coffee in the mornings, giving me water when I’m drunk.”

Drunk words are sober thoughts.

And the metaphor drills itself into your brain, pushing past your years of development and all of a sudden, you’re a child again. Dejected by the criticism thrust upon you.

“Why don’t we get you to bed, yeah?”

He nods in accordance, dragging his feet behind him as he struggles to unbutton his shirt and change into his pajamas, with you following suit, your heart crumbling with every step you take.

You help brush his teeth and wash his face, still clearly out of touch with the world of sobriety even after tucking into the sheets and he begins once again.

“I hate your face.” He seethes.

You shift further away from him in the bed, the distance between you two opening as your chest aches into another chasm, and you stare up at the ceiling.

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s all you can be.” Because you weren’t Yuki.

–

Satoru wakes up the next day, with a pounding in his temple, and he turns around to see your back facing him. How domestic, he stares at the divot in the bed, created by your form, the months that you've so loyally stayed on that side of the bed, your boundary, never truly passing over to his.

He shuffles slightly to learn towards you and lays his head atop your shoulder, feeling the slow rise and fall of your body as you slept and you shift as you feel a weight against your body.

He doesn't remember.

"Good morning, dear." Mumbling into your shoulder, presses a kiss onto your cheek and pulls you towards him, without the recollection of last night in his memory.

Sadly it wasn't mutual – the events fresh, lingering in your consciousness and the sentiments of agony rush over the spot Satoru kissed. As if he had the power to trigger that pain into you.

"You're up early, it's a Saturday." A faint smile displays on your lips, in a groggy state you lay as Satoru crushes you in his hold.

"Can't I enjoy the view?" His eyes wander over your sleepy condition and his heart clenches at the sight.

He knows it's wrong, what he's doing right now, what he's been doing for the past two years with you. But it's the closest thing he's got to keep the memory living. He knows the memory of them will never fully project itself again, especially not through your vessel.

"I guess so," you begin, "what do you want to do today?" You tap on his thigh as he hums in thought, and he gives you a reminiscent expression of when you first met.

"Why don't we have dinner today? That nice Italian place I took you that one time last year?" He sits up straight, plan already forming in his head, "We can dress up all nice and fancy, I can pretend I'm picking you up like it's first date like we did last time?"

The idea of it brings a smile and you nod in agreement as he smiles and kisses you once again, your lips connecting in synchrony, and the smack of his lips as it departs from yours.

"I just have to help Suguru with the birthday party he's planning for the girls tomorrow, I'll be back before 5:30, and I'll be all yours, yeah?"

"Of course, I'll be here waiting. Don't be late or I'll track you down." He throws his head back and laughs, promising you he'll be punctual.

–

He knocks on Suguru's door in a spritely manner, who answers, in a not so amazing mood, with pink hair clips adorning his locks, glitter ornamenting his cheekbones and lipstick smeared against his lips, clearly not aligned with his lipline.

"Need some help with that?" He points at the 'makeover' Nanako and Mimiko did, stating that he clearly needed it.

They begin filling up party bags, in casual conversation as they take the sweets and trinkets and carefully place them in the princess-themed plastic bags that said "Thank you for coming to my birthday!".

"You're in a good mood today." Suguru interrupts, and Satoru pauses as he sends a strange expression. "It's a good thing, I didn't even think you would come help today, I had Shoko on speed dial."

"Why wouldn't I come help for the girls' birthday?" With a quizzical expression, Satoru picks up another toy to place inside the goodie bag and Suguru answers.

"It's the five year anniversary today, last year you even got in a huge fight with Y/N. You seem to be doing a lot better, I'm happy you have them in your life."

He stops what he was doing, and regret rushes in. He was just thinking about Yuki, yet he lets it slips his mind that today was the day he lost them. All because he was too busy thinking about a day with you.

Satoru thinks it's cheating, betrayal on Yuki's behalf, and a crestfallen countenance appears over his face, lips downturned, eyes watering and clear. He blames it all on you, before standing up and apologising to Suguru, who's just realised that his best friend wasn't doing better at all, and leaves his house.

A flower shop, one so familiar and nostalgic. So, he steps in and recklessly buys a bouquet.

"Satoru, buying flowers for Y/N? They told me you were taking them out for dinner. I was beginning to think you were neglecting them." Shoko pops up behind him, and it worsens his day.

You're mentioned again, dampening his mood, but he feigns a smile and nods, "Yeah, thought it'd be nice to go on a date."

"Well, I'm glad. You look a lot better."

It isn't without any extra exchanges before Satoru leaves the establishment with a heavy heart and a location to be. It's cheating, he thinks, to be so focused on someone else, when his true love is waiting in an intangible realm. How could he move on and be so happy without Yuki?

And he isn't.

He appears at their gravestone, flowers in hand.

"Hey." Crouching, he settles into the grass, wiping around their name, and photo so he can clearly see it.

It's obvious their ghost haunts him, that they've laid their territory in his memory and will forever remain. There is no waking day without Yuki, and no dreaming night with them to cease. A permanent embedding of their life exists through Satoru and him alone.

There's a guilt hanging in the air as he longingly stares at their photo, realising that time will never move for them but could only continue for him. Oh, how he wished it would end.

"I'm sorry for not remembering, don't be mad at me." He takes a deep breath and a long pause. "I don't come here as much as I used to. I've been dreading it." He speaks to nothing.

"Coming here just makes me remember you're not around." The air around him responds. "I wish it was me. Maybe you could've moved on, and been in a happy relationship." He thinks of you.

"Just, let me sit here with you before I go."

–

You wait patiently, it's 5:30, and Satoru hasn't returned yet. The outfit he prepared for himself earlier in the day laid neatly and ironed on the bed, yet with no body to wear them. No Satoru.

Tapping your foot, you check your phone to see if he's responded. Only a text message from Shoko, saying she saw him at the flower shop, buying chrysanthemums. You hated chrysanthemums. But you digress, flowers are flowers, and he had you in mind.

It's 6pm, and you've found solace on the sofa, scrolling on your phone, waiting for his arrival. No Satoru.

You refrain from messaging any of his friends, so as not to raise suspicion, and you wait in torment.

Three hours pass, and no sign of Satoru, and you've already changed back into your home clothes and cosy up to the pillow as the TV plays before you. A mindless romance drama, one so corny and unrealistic that you roll your eyes and change the channel.

The door creaks open, and an absentminded, empty shell of a man you call your boyfriend walks through, with no flowers in hand. You stare as he walks straight past you, as if he never made plans in the first place.

All your hopes and dreams dissipate as he changes into his home clothes, hanging up the fancy little outfit he had prepared earlier and placing it back in the wardrobe – and your heart shatters once more. Yet you don't press him about it.

–

Taking all of your belongings and traces of your existence from his apartment, tears blinded your vision and you choked back a sob as everything had finally pieced itself together like a puzzle.

He didn't deserve this suffering, it was an unfortunate accident, one that had brought misery into his life. However, you didn't deserve this suffering either. The pain of sleeping beside a man who saw someone else in your eyes, the person he thought of as he kissed your face.

Being in love with Satoru for a year and a half had taught you many things. It taught you not to wait for someone who was already waiting for another, that you should realise you could not love someone else when you barely loved yourself.

"What are you doing?" Startled, you turn around to see the familiar face.

"Leaving." it was silent for a few moments.

"Why?"

"Because you don't love me." How immature, thought Satoru, you sounded like a child, who craved for someone's attention every time it lacked for a second.

"Who said that?"

"It doesn't need to be said, I can see it. You think I can't hear you cry at night as you call out for someone who is long gone, or how you hold me like I’m some kind of toy, there to relieve your stress? You look at me like you're waiting for a person to come through the door and kick me out. I don't want that, I’d rather leave myself."

How did you know? Was he too obvious? But you couldn't leave, no, who was he going to come home to if not you, let alone Yuki, how was he going to feel loved if there was no one there to love him in the first place?

"But you can't leave me!" He walks closer, reaching out to you for the first time in months, finally showing you an inkling of what he truly felt. Sober.

“Why? So I can continue living in their shoes? Filling the empty space they left behind?” You retort, tears brimming your eyes with a wavering voice. “It’s not fair, Toru.”

“No- it’s not like that-“ he takes a step forward.

“Yeah, then what is it like?” There’s a pregnant pause, and he shuts his mouth. “I thought so.”

“Just hear me out, please?” He begs, eyes glimmering under the yellowed light of his living room. And you nod. “I admit, when I first saw you, it reminded me of them, but the longer we were together, that association disappeared. I don’t even think about them anymore!”

“Oh, that’s just bullshit, Satoru. You don’t think I can hear you every night? Crying for them, wishing they could come back into your arms?” Sobs simply spill at this point, and there’s no control over your emotions anymore. “What does that leave me with, huh? A boyfriend who doesn’t love me, but just the appearance I symbolise? You think you’re so slick, but I know it all, the look you give me, searching for someone else in my eyes, the things you buy me, knowing they’re all for them. I’m not just some vessel for you to dump your feelings on. I’m a fucking person, your partner at that!”

“I’m just, having a hard time, I love them so much.”

He looks down, ashamed to look into your eyes, to acknowledge the pain he’s forced you through. “And I completely understand that Gojo,” calling him by his last name had never felt so nerve wracking, “you never deserved any of this. But I’m not where your grief should be placed, especially when I have no idea that this ever happened. Get some fucking therapy.”

Something inside of him snaps, and he loses control of his emotions, the colour red seeping through his line of vision, a cloud of it embossing around your figure before him.

“Me? Get therapy? You’re the fucking clingy one always wondering where I am, asking when I’m coming home. You always want to fucking talk to me, hug me and spend time with me when you fucking know I value my space.” He almost yells back.

“God, I know you want your space, I give you your fucking space that’s why you’re never around. I try to respect your boundaries so fucking much and you give me nothing back. Why are you even with me if you know so clearly that you haven’t moved on!”

“I don’t know.”

The silence returns. Alongside a gut wrenching realisation that the relationship had been one sided. It’s possible that you were catastrophising it, but your world comes crashing down, and everything you’ve ever known about love, about Satoru, dissipates the longer you stare at him. And his confidence falters.

“Alright. I’ll come back in a few days to collect anything I’ve left behind.” Your voice comes out in a shallow whisper, but loud enough for Satoru to decipher.

And he nods, again. “Okay.”

"You should give yourself time to heal, Satoru. Real time."

Deep down, you both know it's impossible.

Your footsteps recede, and slowly the volume of your shoes fade away the further you get from him, and all Satoru sees before him is the pair of slippers that you bought when you first moved in.

a/n: had this in the drafts for like two years and did nothing ab it so i'm sorry for the half assed ending its been hectic recently

©tora-ken 2024

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literaryvein-reblogs · 10 months ago

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"troublesome" words

Lie, Lying, Lay, Lain vs. Lie, Lying, Lied, Lied

"Lie" is an intransitive verb meaning "to rest" or "to be at rest." Its forms are: lie, lying, lay, lain. Examples: Lie down. 2) Lying in the sun dries our skin. 3) The parcels lay on the table. 4) We have lain in the sun for thirty minutes.

"Lie" can also mean make an untrue statement. It is an intransitive verb whose forms are: 'lie' and lying (present), 'lied' (both past and participle.) Examples: 1) Please don't lie to me. 2) He was punished for lying. 3) They lied to their parents. 4) They have lied before.

Unlike "lie," "lay" is a transitive verb, so it always takes an object. Remember that "lie" never takes an object because it is intransitive. The forms of "lay" are lay, laying, laid, laid. Examples: 1) Lay the bricks here. 2) He was laying the bricks in rows. 3) Yesterday he laid the bricks ten high. 4) He has laid all the bricks in the wall.

Note that the present tense of "lay" is the same as the past tense of "lie."

Its vs. It's, 'Tis

"Its" is the possessive of the pronoun "it." Note that there is no apostrophe. Example: Its appearance was misleading.

"It's" is a contraction meaning "it is." Example: It's a long way to Tipperary. "It's" can also be a contraction meaning "it has." Example: It's been a long day.

"'Tis" is also a contraction meaning "it is." Example: 'Tis seldom used in modern English.

Set vs. Sit

"Set" is, in most ordinary uses, a transitive verb needing an object. It means to put or place something in a certain position, or to arrange. Its principal parts are: set, setting, set, set. Examples: 1) She set the table. 2) He set the watch.

"Sit" is, in ordinary usage, an intransitive verb. It means to rest somewhere (like a chair) in an upright position. Its principal parts are: sit, sitting, sat, sat. Examples: He sits down.

"Sit" can also be used to talk about where an object is located. Example: The clock sits on the shelf. In a few instances "sit" is used as a transitive verb, such as in: He sat himself down.

Your vs. You're

You have probably encountered confusion between your and you're in many Internet posts.

Sometimes people write comments like "your so pretty in this picture" when they really mean "you're so pretty in this picture."

So what's the difference? Just remember—you're (with the apostrophe) is a contraction meaning you are, but your (no apostrophe) indicates possession or ownership.

Their, There, and They're

"Their" is the possessive form for the plural pronoun "they." Example: They used their money on video games.

The word "there" has several meanings. As an adverb it means in, at, or about that place. Example: Place the book there.

When used as a noun, "there" means that place. Example: Are you from there, too?

When used as an interjection, "there" expresses an exclamation of triumph or relief. Example: There! It is finished.

"They're" is a contraction meaning "they are." Example: They're going to the show.

To, Too, and Two

"To" is used as a preposition or part of an infinitive phrase. Examples: 1) We are going to the store. 2) Are you going to sing a song?

"Too" is an adverb meaning also or to an excessive degree. Examples: 1) I am going too. 2) You are just too much.

"Two" is the number 2. Example: I have two dollars.

You and I vs. You and Me

"You and I" are pronouns used as either the subject or the predicate in a sentence. Examples: 1) You and I are going. 2) The winners are you and I.

"You and Me" are pronouns used as direct objects, indirect objects, or objects of prepositions. Examples: 1) They have chosen you and me. 2) The reward is for you and me.

Who vs. Whom

Some people think the main difference between who and whom is the way they sound, with whom being the more formal way to say who. In reality, the distinction between them is grammatical.

Even though who and whom are both pronouns, they do completely different jobs in a sentence—who acts as the subject while whom acts as the object.

Just remember to use who to refer to the person who is propelling the action in a sentence; use whom when the person is having the action done to them.

You also use whom, never who, as the object of a preposition.

Who: Subject pronoun; never use as the object of a preposition Whom: Direct or indirect object pronoun; Must use with prepositions

Some examples:

Students who study hard usually earn excellent grades. The pronoun, who, is referring back to the subject, students. (Who earns excellent grades? The students do.) Because the pronoun is referring to a subject, it would be incorrect to use the object pronoun whom.

Earning excellent grades also depends on whom you study with. This sentence has two clauses, but for the purposes of this lesson we'll focus only on the second one, whom you study with. In this clause, whom is the object of the preposition with, so it would be incorrect to use the subject pronoun who.

Hint: You can replace who with other subject pronouns (he, she, I, we, they, etc.) and whom with other object pronouns (him, her, me, us, them, etc.).

The comedian who is on TV right now is the funniest guy I've ever seen. ⇒ He is on TV. Who is the subject of the verb is, so you can replace who with he.

My cousins are the family members whom I see most often. ⇒ I see them. Whom is the direct object of the verb see, so you can replace whom with them. You'll notice that the placement of whom is different from that of other object pronouns—whom generally comes before the subject and verb while other object pronouns like them come after the subject and verb. For that reason, it might not be obvious at first glance that you can replace whom with another object pronoun (you would never say them I see).

A Couple of Sticky Situations: Who vs. Whom

There are certain sentence types that make it difficult to decide whether to use who or whom.

Object of One Clause, Subject of Another This situation involves two verbs with a pronoun between them:It was pitch dark, and I couldn't see who was coming down the hall.Notice how who seems to "stick" to both verbs—it looks like the object of the first verb and the subject of the second. So which pronoun do you choose, who or whom? There's a simple answer—subjects speak louder than objects because they propel the action in a sentence, so always "stick" with the subject pronoun who.

Preposition Separated from its Object Take a look at this example of traditional formal English: For whom are those flowers? Chances are you've never heard anyone ask a question that way. When we talk, the preposition "unsticks" from the pronoun and moves all the way down to the end of the sentence: Whom are those flowers for? Still sound strange? That's because most people would say Who are those flowers for? but it's really better to use whom because it's the object of the preposition for. It's easy to tell when you're dealing with an object-preposition separation because you can replace whom with him, her, me, us, them, etc. Question: Whom are those flowers for? Whom is the object of the preposition for. Answer: The flowers are for her. Now, in the answer, her has become the object of the preposition for.

Note: Traditionally, it is incorrect to end a sentence with a preposition, but when we talk it happens naturally. Many teachers still prefer their students not to end sentences with prepositions, but this rule has become more relaxed in recent years.

All Ready vs. Already

"All ready" refers to a state of readiness. Example: They were all ready to go. In the case of a singular person, the "all" in "all ready" can be dropped to just say, "Are you ready?"

"Already" means prior to some specified time. Example: They were already packed and ready to go when he arrived.

All Together vs. Altogether

"All Together" means in concert or in unison. Example: They sang all together.

"Altogether" means wholly, completely, or absolutely. Example: This is altogether strange.

All Ways vs. Always

"All ways" or "all the ways" means every manner possible. Example: She was in all ways very humble.

"Always" means at all times. Example: She was always humble.

Everyone vs. Every One

The terms everyone and every one may look the same, but they are used in different contexts.

Everyone, as one word, is a singular pronoun that refers to a group of people. It's synonymous with its sister pronoun, everybody.

Remember, even though a group is made up of several members, everyone is always singular because you refer to those members as a single group.

Everyone is used only for people, never animals or objects.

Everyone I know is coming to the pool party on Saturday. Multiple people are coming to the party, but they are being treated as a single group.

These cookies are for everyone. The cookies are for a group.

Every one, as two words, is a phrase that refers to the individuals that make up a group, not to the group as a whole. It is synonymous with the phrases every single one and each one.

You can also use it for emphasis to give your sentence a little more "oomph." Just like everyone, every one is always singular.

However, unlike everyone, every one can refer to anything, including people, animals, and objects.

I think every one of these cakes is delicious. This sentence emphasizes that each individual cake in the group is delicious. You could simply say "These cakes are delicious," but it wouldn't have the same effect.

Every one of them is coming to the party. This sentence also uses every one for emphasis. It's not just everyone who's coming to the party—it's every single person in the group.

Hint: Here's a little trick to help you remember the difference between everyone and every one:

When every and one join together (everyone), you are focusing on the group as a whole—the two words work together as a single unit.

Everyone laughed. (The group laughed.)

When every and one stand alone (every one), you are emphasizing individuals—the two words work separately.

Every one of them laughed. (Each person laughed.)

Award vs. Reward

"Award" means to bestow an honor or object by a considered decision. Example: The principal gave academic awards to the top students.

"Reward" is something given in return for something done, either good or evil. Example: He was rewarded with cookies.

Anger, Angry vs. Mad

"Anger" (Angry) means a strong displeasure and antagonism directed toward the cause of a possible wrong or injustice; wrath; ire. Example: I am angry.

Madness (Mad) means a suffering from or manifesting severe mental disorder; insane; lunatic; psychotic; crazy. Example: Madness is a severe mental disorder.

Note: It is common in informal everyday expressions for the word "mad" to be used for "angry." This covers the explicit and formal meaning of the words.

Can vs. May

In formal speech writing, "can" implies the ability to do something. Example: I can throw a ball.

"May" implies a need for permission. Example: May I throw a ball?

In informal speech and writing, "can" is now acceptable in the sense of "may." Example: Can I leave now?

At the formal level the distinction between "can" and "may" is still observed.

Fewer vs. Less

If you've been to the grocery store lately, you've probably noticed a sign at checkout that says "15 items or less." You'll learn in this lesson that the sign should say "15 items or fewer."

The reason is straightforward—when talking about a quantity you can count with numbers, use fewer, but for an amount you can't count, use less. Below are some examples:

There are fewer students here today than there were yesterday. Use fewer because you can count the number of students. Maybe there were 30 students in class yesterday and only 25 today.

The teacher assigned less homework today than he did yesterday. Use less because the word homework is not countable. It's not possible to make homework plural—homeworks is not a word. You wouldn't say I have three homeworks tonight ... and that actually leads us into this lesson's hint:

Hint: Usually, if you can add s to the end of the noun to make it plural, use fewer, not less.

Just be mindful of exactly what you're trying to communicate; sometimes you can use either less or fewer, but the word you choose will change the meaning of the sentence:

You gave him less pie than you gave me. Yes, it's true that you can add s to the word pie to make it plural. However, this sentence is talking about the amount of pie, not how many pies, so use less.

Last year's pie-eating contest champion ate fewer pies this year than last. This sentence tells us that there is more than one pie. Maybe last year he ate 10 pies, but this year he could only choke down 8. Because you can count the number of pies, use fewer.

Be careful when discussing time, measurements, or money. These often seem countable, but in reality they refer to an amount, so use less, not fewer.

Our business pulled in less than $100,000 last year. You'll be able to finish the race in less than 10 minutes.

Lose vs. Loose

The word lose, with one o, is a verb that means you have lost something that belongs to you. It can also mean to reduce or lessen.

My little sister always loses her toys. Vitamins lose their potency when they are left out on the table.

Spelling Hint 1: When you say the word lose aloud, you pronounce the s like a z.

Spelling Hint 2: Think about the words lose and lost. Both words have the same meaning (when you lose something, it's lost), and both are spelled with only one o.

The word loose, with two o's, means that something is not tight, or that it's coming apart.

He loosened the reins on his horse. My shoelaces always come loose during gym class.

Spelling Hint 1: Unlike lose, the word loose is pronounced the way it looks, with the s making a regular s sound.

Spelling Hint 2: Remember the phrase loose as a goose. Both loose and goose are spelled with two o's.

More Helpful Hints: Lose vs. Loose

Note that these two words can fulfill different grammatical roles.

The verb lose can be turned into a noun by adding a different ending.

The word loose can be used as a verb, an adjective, or even an adverb, depending on the ending you choose.

The words lose and loose are used in many idiomatic expressions (that's a fancy term for slang). This basically means that their conventional definitions can be stretched a bit.

Accept vs. Except

"Accept" means to receive. Example: I accept your invitation.

"Except" means to omit or to exempt. Example: Everyone except Bill will attend.

Affect vs. Effect

"Affect" may be a verb or a noun, but for the purposes of this lesson, treat each instance of "affect" as a verb meaning "to influence or to change." Examples: 1) Illness affects his patience. 2) She attempted to affect a caring attitude.

"Effect" may be a verb or a noun. As a verb it means to bring about. Example: We will effect the changes we want.

As a noun it means result of a cause. Example: What effect will this bring?

Advice vs. Advise

"Advice" is a noun meaning a suggestion or recommendation. Example: What is your advice?

"Advise" is a verb meaning to recommend. Example: I have been advised to attend.

Between vs. Among, Amongst

"Between" shows connection with two persons or things and may refer to space or time. Example: There was an alley between the buildings.

"Among" and "amongst" show connection with more than two persons or things. Sometimes people use "between" when they want to show a connection with more than two things, but this is not correct. Example: They stood among the trees.

Bad vs. Badly

"Bad" is an adjective meaning sick, in pain, unpleasant, or immoral. It is always used with nouns and linking verbs, and it can never be used with action verbs. Example: I feel bad.

"Badly" is an adverb that is used with all other verbs. You use it when you want to say that someone is not good at something or that someone did a bad job. It should not be used as an adjective and is never used with linking verbs. Example: He drives badly.

Breath vs. Breathe

"Breath" is the noun pronounced to rhyme with death. Example: I lost my breath.

"Breathe" is the verb pronounced as to rhyme with sheathe. Example: Breathe deeply.

Bring, Take, Fetch, and Carry

"Bring" implies moving or conveying something from a distant place or person to a nearer place or person. Example: Bring me a drink.

"Take" implies motion away from speaker to a person or place. Example: Please take me to your leader.

Some easy ways to remember the differences between "bring" and "take" are: You bring something here, and you take something there. You bring something toward a person, and you take something away from a person.

"Carry" implies the conveying of something from one place to another. Example: Please carry this to the car.

"Fetch" implies a two-way trip that is to go for something and bring it back. Example: Rover, fetch the ball.

Capital vs. Capitol

"Capital" as a noun can mean either the seat of government or wealth and resources.

As an adjective it means first or excellent.

Sometimes it is used to mean punishable by death (a capital offense). Example: Cheyenne is the capital of Wyoming.

"Capitol" is a noun meaning the building in which a state legislature convenes; a statehouse. Example: The Wyoming capitol building is in Cheyenne. Also is referring to the official building of the U.S. Congress in Washington D.C., the word is capitalized as part of the proper noun: Capitol Building.

Complement vs. Compliment

"Complement" means that which completes. It can also be a complete number or set of people or things. Example: Those shoes complement that outfit.

"Compliment" means an expression of admiration or approval given freely as a courtesy. Example: Her compliment on the outfit was appreciated.

Sometimes the adjective "complimentary" also means free. Example: The hotel provided a complimentary breakfast.

Emigrate vs. Immigrate

To "emigrate" is to leave one's country for residence in another. Example: I emigrated from my home country.

To "immigrate" is to come into a country of which one is not a native. Example: The person arrived in the new country as an immigrant.

Farther vs. Further

"Farther" usually implies the idea of physical distance. Example: San Francisco is farther away than San Diego.

"Further" usually implies the idea of greater abstract degrees. In other words, it is used to talk about concepts such as time and progress, among others. Example: His dreams were further in the future.

Council vs. Counsel

A "Council" is an assembly or group that meets for deliberation. It can only be used as a noun. Example: A council of teachers considered his case.

"Counsel" is a noun that means advice or deliberating together. Example: He accepted the counsel of his mother. Note that "counsel" can also be used as a verb, as in "I am counseling my friend," while "council" can only be used as a noun.

Principal vs. Principle

"Principal" as an adjective means main, chief, leading. As a noun, "principal" means a leader, a head, or a sum placed at interest. Examples: 1) The bus was his principal means of transportation. 2) The principal of the school was new.

"Principle" means a rule of action, a moral standard, or a fundamental truth. Example: The principle of the statement was understood by all.

Whether vs. Weather

"Whether" is a conjunction meaning in either case. Example: Tell me whether you are considering our plan.

"Weather" is a noun meaning a prevailing condition or atmosphere: mental or moral climate. Example: Stormy weather is coming.

Allay vs. Alley vs. Ally

"Allay" is a verb meaning to reduce the intensity, lay to rest, or pacify and calm. Example: His mother attempted to allay his fears.

"Alley" is a noun meaning a narrow passageway. Example: There is an alley behind the buildings.

"Ally" is a verb or noun meaning to connect by some relationship usually showing helpfulness or kinship. Example: The United States is a close ally of England.

Allude vs. Elude

"Allude" is a verb meaning to make an indirect or passing reference. Example: The speaker alluded to his fame.

"Elude" is a verb meaning to evade or escape from something. Example: The soldier attempted to elude the enemy.

Allusion vs. Illusion

"Allusion" is the noun derived from the verb "allude," which is to make an indirect or passing reference to something. Example: She made allusions about her wealth.

"Illusion" is the action of deceiving the eye or mind by what is unreal or false. Example: The magician created the illusion of flowing water.

All-round vs. All Around

"All-round" is an adjective meaning versatile or general. Example: He is an all-round mechanic.

"All around" has the meaning of being all over a given area. Example: Fir trees were all around the cabin.

Alternate vs. Alternative

"Alternate" (as a verb) means to follow one another by turns. Example: Please alternate the colored pages.

"Alternate" (as a noun) means a substitute or second for another person. Example: I am the alternate committee member.

"Alternative" means a choice between two things. Example: We have only two alternatives.

Apprehend vs. Comprehend

"Apprehend" means to take into custody or grasp mentally. While "apprehend" sometimes means "understand," it is best to use "comprehend" because it's easier for most people to understand. For the purposes of this exercise, always use "comprehend" for "understand." The noun form, "apprehension," means a foreboding or dread of something. Example: Please apprehend the criminal.

"Comprehend" means to grasp mentally or understand fully. Example: Do you comprehend this material? The adjective "comprehensive" means all-inclusive or having a wide range. Example: Final exams are usually comprehensive because they include questions on all the material covered in a semester.

Born vs. Borne

"Born" is an adjective that means brought forth as by birth. It can also describe someone who has a natural talent for something. Example: She is a born musician. Common patterns use "born" as a past participle verb form, as in: She was born on the Fourth of July.

"Borne" is the past participle of the verb "bear" (bear, bore, borne) meaning to support, to carry, to hold in mind, to suffer. Example: The fluffy seeds were borne by the wind.

Censor vs. Censure

"Censor" as a noun means any official examiner of books, plays, etc., empowered to suppress them if they are found to be politically or morally objectionable. Example: Is there a censor for our library?

"Censor" can also be used as a verb meaning examine or suppress. Example: Many movies have to be censored before they are put on TV.

"Censure" means the expression of disapproval or blame, strong criticism, reprimand. Example: Will we be censured for our article?

Notable vs. Notorious, Notoriety

"Notable" and "noted" are used chiefly of persons or things that are remarkable or distinguished for favorable reasons. Examples: 1) The notable remark will be remembered for a long time. 2) The noted author spoke at a local club.

"Notorious" is now almost always used to mean of ill repute. In other words, if someone is known for doing something bad, he or she is "notorious." Example: The notorious outlaw was hunted by the law.

"Notoriety," likewise, means unfavorable publicity or distinction. Example: She did not want any more notoriety.

Persecute vs. Prosecute

"Persecute" means to subject a person or group to persistent ill treatment. Example: People tend to persecute teenagers for their different styles.

"Prosecute" means to pursue, carry out, or bring a lawsuit against a person or group. Example: The court will prosecute anyone who breaks the law.

Continual, Continuous, and Consecutive

"Continual" means happening again and again at short intervals as "continual reminders." Example: The loud trucks were a continual problem.

"Continuous" means uninterrupted, whether of time or space, as in "continuous misery," "continuous rain," or "continuous range of mountains." Example: The stormy weather was continuous.

"Consecutive" means occurring one after the other, as in "consecutive days of the week." Example: Are we to attend on consecutive days?

Sight vs. Site, Cite

"Sight" used as noun means vision or the act of seeing. Example: Sight is one of our senses.

"Sight" used as a verb means to take aim or to spot something that is difficult or unusual to see, or make an observation. Example: Sight along the barrel of the gun.

"Cite" is a verb meaning to quote as authority, to mention in a report, or to summon to appear in court. Example: Please cite the applicable law.

"Site" is a noun meaning a place where an event has occurred, or a place where something is located, a place set apart for some specific use. Example: It was a large school site.

Stationary vs. Stationery

"Stationary" means fixed in one place. Example: The cabinet in the kitchen was stationary.

"Stationery" means writing supplies. Example: The stationery had a flower motif.

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

#writeblr #writing prompt #studyblr #langblr #linguistics #dark academia #light academia #literature #poetry #writers on tumblr #poets on tumblr #writing reference #writing resources #vocabulary

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ghcstao3 · 6 months ago

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(cw mcd but not in like? a sad way? bittersweet/ambiguous ending at worst but it’s overall hopeful and happy i swear)

(also cw for descriptions of death/dying. not very graphic)

Simon Riley dies alone, buried six feet deep in a Mexican desert. He had scrabbled at his coffin lid until his fingers were raw and bloody and stuck with splinters, then there had been a growing tightness in his chest, and then there had been nothing.

A month ago, Manuel Roba had made the mistake of leaving another soldier buried with the rotted corpse of their former CO, and they had escaped, just barely, with the help of a broken jawbone—until, of course, they were shot point blank once the soil loosened, because Manuel Roba would never be far.

So Simon does not get the same opportunity. Simon does not get to succeed in getting out.

And, ever the restless soul, his ghost wanders. Wanders until he comes upon a town whose name he can’t quite discern in the strange, phantasmal distortion that clouds his senses. But he can hear the buzz of chatter and music, feel the emotion of bodies alive, and so he decides to stay in this unnamed town, wandering, at least until his undetermined eternity runs out.

John MacTavish dies alone, in a Mexican town by the name of Las Almas. He had fought tooth and nail to survive, until blood loss had made him too sluggish, then there had been a second bullet, and then there had been nothing.

No one had predicted Graves and Shepherd’s betrayal, and it had stung. Then with Rodolfo nowhere to be found, Alejandro captured, and no one to help with his escape, John had been left on his own, with nothing. He had nothing to staunch the bleeding of the bullet wound in his bicep, had no weapons to protect himself from the droves of Shadows roaming Alejandro and Rodolfo’s home town, had no way of knowing the church would not serve as sufficient refuge.

He killed the Shadow sitting in wait, but not before they managed to lodge a bullet in his abdomen, and he had realized, then, that it was hopeless to think he could still get out. So, with what little was left of his strength and adrenaline, John deposited the Shadow outside, barricaded himself in, and slumped into a rickety pew until the world faded from around him.

And, ever the restless soul, his ghost wanders. Las Almas becomes John’s home, though it always remains unfamiliar through the otherworldly haze that dilutes his senses. They’re a strong people here, and they rebuild after the Shadows’ brief but cruel rampage, and it’s enough for John, feeling infected by their resilience, to be satisfied with spending the rest of his unknown eternity floating through the town.

At first, neither Simon nor John understand how or why they meet.

It isn't as if they are the only two spirits roaming Las Almas—really, the town is chock full of ghosts, as are most towns and cities and even individual buildings, but paths seldom cross. The afterlife is lonesome, and though it really isn't so terrible, that isolation is only inherent to the nature of death, and so it truly shouldn't be possible that they should ever encounter one another.

And yet, one night—a date they are both unsure of, as time becomes mostly indecipherable once departed from the land of the living—it’s like that fog disappears, that veil lifts, and suddenly the world has become clear once more, clear like both John and Simon had forgotten.

Las Almas seems to be brimming with more life than usual, music and dancing, food and gatherings. John is in awe—despite the festivities, however, he’s also filled with a profound sense of melancholy, mourning everything he’s missed since his passing; since his perception had been reduced to something murky, like he was underwater, looking up and hearing sounds but never quite able to make any of it out. He doesn’t know how long this might last, so he takes advantage of every second—that’s how he eventually stumbles upon Simon Riley.

Simon—he’s heard of Día de los Muertos before, but never quite understood the tradition. His experiences in Mexico were limited, culturally and otherwise, and so it comes as a surprise when he finally feels like he’s living again—but walking through Las Almas, as he finally learns its name, it only takes seeing some ofrendas and listening into conversations to understand what this is, and that it’s only temporary. He is not really a physical being anymore, but he can at least pretend like he is, and that’s how he eventually comes across John MacTavish.

John feels lost, though he’s been haunting these streets for some time now. He spots Simon hanging back in the shadows, notices for the first time that’s it’s someone actually looking at him, not through or past him, and he all but runs up to the man, afraid that if he were to take too long, John might lose his only chance at company.

“You can see me,” John says, breathless.

“I can see you,” the man agrees, the weight of his gaze solid and unwavering.

John wishes to melt alongside the honey-gold flecks in the man’s warm, brown irises, and endeavours to memorize their colour in case he should never get this opportunity again.

“Are you also…?”

A curt nod. “I am.”

John shifts awkwardly. “Do you know what—“

“Day of the Dead,” says the man, not unkindly, though he isn’t necessarily being friendly, either. Obviously, he’s not one for talking—that, or he’s gotten too used to being alone. John doesn’t really care either way. “That’s why there’s so many… people.”

Spirits, the man means, just like the two of them. John feels stupid for not having noticed sooner, and feels his face tingle with a blush. It’s odd, realizing that that’s something he missed about being alive.

“So…” John drums his fingers on either of his thighs, the only thing he’s been able to touch all evening. “You come here often?”

When the man barks out a laugh, John thinks it’s the best thing he’s ever heard, dead and alive. He hopes, somehow, some way, to carry it with him throughout the remainder of his non-existence, however long that may be.

“Are you really hitting on me?” The man asks with incredulity, smiling, and John feels a grin growing on his own face, involuntary and so very welcome.

John shrugs. “Why not?” He surely looks like an idiot right now. He honestly thought he’d forgotten how to smile. “Didn’t think I had any loved ones here, but guess I was wrong.”

It’s dumb and cheesy but John guesses that it works, because suddenly he’s learning the other spirit’s name is Simon, and suddenly Simon is asking if Johnny would like to take a walk with him, and suddenly John finds himself saying yes.

So they wander aimlessly, chat about everything and nothing, and it’s nice, so nice, to get to feel like they’re real again. Even bittersweet as it is, once the sun starts to rise and crowds seem to thin, and John realizes he can’t quite recall the colour of Simon’s eyes anymore.

It’s in a church, the church, where they finally decide to settle and accept the inevitable. Simon still doesn’t understand why they also got to reunite with the living while being strangers to Las Almas, but he doesn’t voice this concern, instead choosing to focus on imagining the warmth of John’s presence beside him as the world starts to fade again, piece by piece.

“I think I’ve been ready for a while now. To move on,” Simon murmurs, staring ahead at the altar, the swathes of glowing candles. “If that’s even how this works. I think I’m just… afraid of what else there might be.”

“I’m not sure,” John admits. He wishes he were able to lean his head on Simon’s shoulder, or intertwine their fingers. “I’ve never thought about it. Don’t think it’d be so bad.”

They’ve only known one another for a few hours, certainly, but John can still sense Simon’s inner turmoil as he nods and hums and stares off into the distance. John wonders if, maybe in another life, they might’ve had a proper chance to have a thousand more conversations before this one. A proper chance to actually build something between them before they find themselves clinging to the dregs of almost-corporeality, just wishing for more time, or maybe something better entirely.

“I’ll go with you,” John adds unthinkingly, feeling his phantom heartbeat jumping in pace. “I don’t really have anything to stay for. That way we’d at least have something familiar.”

“I don’t know if I’d call you familiar,” Simon teases, a faint smile on his lips. “But I think I’d like that.”

“Good,” John says. “Because I wasn’t really giving you a choice.”

Simon laughs quietly, and John grasps desperately onto the sound as he closes his eyes and allows himself to be submerged again. When he opens his eyes, as he expected, the world is as it was before, blurry and distant and incomprehensible.

But this time, it isn’t nearly as lonely.

#since i had no halloween post this year #slightly early little bit of día de los muertos :)#simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #soapghost #ghostsoap #ghost x soap #ghoap #alternate universe #writing

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