#at least in public schools. you'd need to go to a private institute

[90sbee]

just bc i need to feel proud of myself for a little bit: if you had told 11? 12? yo me that was just starting learning English and that felt so out of place bc everyone in her class already spoke a bit, that she'd end up teaching the fucking language AND also acting in English she'd very much. die™

basically i learned English out of spite (which. insane since it's become like, what guides my professional life and hobbies lmao. i'd be a completely different person without it honestly)

[crazycat010]

I'm Mr. Lonely

Gojo Satoru x Reader HIGH SCHOOL AU (Not sorcerer world)

Inspired by Mr. Lonely by Bobby Vinton

"Lonely. I'm Mr Lonely. I have nobody for my own"

Warnings: reader feel lonely, insecurities, angst, sad, sarcastic reader, heavy bullying though it's not too explicit, unrequited love, reader comes from a poor family but has worked hard to get in a prestigious school, attachment issues and absent parents+controlling and over protective mom (Satoru). Characters are aged accordingly to the Alternate Universe I pictured them in. Fluffy ending!😆

Reader insert, no reference to reader's body so it can be seen as female, gender neutral and male reader. Reader has interests in scientific subjects+business but you can obviously think about different subjects you enjoy studying.

Part 2?

word count = 4.013

c/n= city name (refers to your birthplace or whatever city you'd like your character to be born in)

The bell rings.

Great, another stupid hour with my stupid Physics professor (sorry Professor Brown, I hate to tell you this, but I already know by heart the entire Physics program for the first years, and you certainly don’t make reviewing known topics enjoyable)and my even more stupid classmates. Like, I never thought QI levels could go below zero until I met my classmates.

Oh, right. Sorry! I forgot to introduce myself, I’m Y/n Y/Ln. I was born and raised in c/n, I have the most lovely parents in the whole world (or that’s what I started believing once I saw how my classmates had been raised) and I go to Aurelian Crest Academy. Yes, you heard right.

I go to THE Aurelian Crest. And, for those of you who didn’t know, one of the most prestigious High schools in the entire world.

Now, you may be wondering: “Y/n, why do you despise your very own classmates so much?”

To answer your question, we need to analyze my initial situation. When I started High School, that small old school right beside my house, I was a nobody.

I didm’t come from a wealthy family, so I couldn’t afford to go to the private school in town, and had to settle down for the public institute, full of all kinds of people.

From students who smoked w££d weekly, to those who smoke it daily. And then, there I was. Little ol’ me with the same backpack from when I started Elementary School on my shoulders, a pair of patched up jeans from my cousin, the absolutely worst ponytail one could conjure, and a new polo my mom had bought just for the occasion(also used, but at least this one wasn’t ripped).

Ever since I first started school, teachers had always seemed to notice my inclination for scientific studies, furthermore, they all looked shocked whenever I handed over my perfectly executed Maths, Physics and Computer Science papers. Sure, I was still top of the class in many more subjects, such as my first and second languages, History, Natural Sciences and whatever, but out of all the classes I took, the scientific ones always let me stand out more.

I was raised up reading stories of famous physicians, mathematicians and engineers, whom had built their whole life around their interests, so I’d always dreamt of becoming an engineer as well, or at least have a job that would grant me a luxurious lifestyle while still doing what I loved most.

Therefore, I decided to spend my time reading and studying at the local library.

I didn’t partecipate in any extracurricular activities at school, did any sports or even went to the park in the afternoons, since my parents were usually too busy working to bring me, and when they weren’t, they were often too tired to do so but, either way, I enjoyed spending time with them or on my own better.

Those are the main, if not only, reasons for which you could call me a loner, and I wouldn’t bother. Mostly because I was used to getting picked on for my unusual hobbies, and partially because I often had my worn out headphones in, blasting whatever song I felt like listening to that day, and therefore didn’t hear a single noise aside from the singer, drummer and guitarist of said song’s band.

Time-skip to when I was in high school. My lifestyle hadn’t changed much throughout the years, unless you care about me starting to enjoy eating avocados and other green foods.

However, what had changed, were the professor with whom I interacted. During both elementary and Middle school, my teachers had never cared that much of my piqued interest for numbers  and formulas, but in my first year of High school, it had all changed after I’d met my new maths teacher. Mr. Williams was old to say the least. His grey hair sticked in different ways from all over his head, giving him a crazy scientist look, kind of like Einstein if I may. His soft voice couldn’t be heard over the chaotic chatter of my classmates, but I refused to not listen to his lessons, since he was the first teacher to actually look like they enjoyed teaching a bunch of strays and a nerd.

For the first time in my entire life, I met someone with my same exact interests. I began listening to all his lessons, which was a huge change, considering that, with all my reading, I’d always found lessons boring as teachers reviewed stuff I’d already studied. In time, we built a strong teacher-student bond, and after a while, he convinced me to try out for the Aurelian crest.

When I first heard there was a test with which, the students with the highest scores, could enter the Academy and have their studies paid for, I didn’t believe it.

However, I still studied hard the entire second semester and summer in order to achieve the perfect score, 100%, on the test.

And that’s how, someone like me, became part of  a student body like the Aurelian Crest Academy’s.

Thanks to the school’s funds and my parent’s agreement, I moved to the huge dorms near the High School campus and began my journey at one of the most famous Academies in the world.

Nonetheless, I still find it very hard to make friends, and I still struggle to come to term that I spend most of my time with rich kids that have no idea whatsoever of what earning their right to be here means, as most of these kids’ parents have paid a crazy amount of money and done insane donations to the school just to give their children a chance. Obviously, this doesn’t mean that these kids are dumb, no. It simply means that they’re smart, but would rather use their knowledge and money to ruin somebody else’s life than worry to make theirs better.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is the reason for which I found myself in this peculiar situation.

I was casually heading to the bathroom for a quick break before the next lesson, when all of a sudden I hear a familiar group of girls giggling together like middle-age women of the high nobility classes, which, from my personal experience, is never a good sign.

As I got out of the bathroom, kind of clumsily I have to admit, since I basically tripped myself over getting out of that small cabinet and almost knocked over a younger girl to whom I apologized profusely, I saw the commotion’s cause.

Hanging loosely from a small pin on the main mirror, there was a picture, a picture of me specifically, from my first day of school here.

Now, you might think: “Well, Y/n, they hung a beautiful picture of you for everyone to see, shouldn’t you be happy with yourself?”

And let me tell you, my dears. That picture was indeed very pretty, if you ignored the drawn over beard, smith’s goggles, squiggly lines representing the bad smell, witch moles, thick animal fur and a just chewed chewing gum attached on the paper to top it off. That was a heck of a print!

Staring intently at my hands, I washed my hands and face. Taking a big breath, I headed out to the physics classroom. However, the walk created a giant hole in my teeny tiny mortal heart.

The more I looked around, the more prints like the one hanging on the bathroom’s mirror there were, scattered around the whole building.

I sped up, focusing solely on my new shoes my parents had bought for my birthday.

“Oh no! Did we make Y/n Y/Ln cry?” One of the girls who had planned the whole thing came up to me laughing, followed by her minions.

She blocked my way, causing me to stop walking. With a gentle touch, that held a good amount of malice and wickedness, she lifted my chin to meet my eyes with her own.

“Why don’t you go back to where you came from? Huh? I’m sure you’ll feel better once you rejoin with your poor stupid parents.” She said.

I didn’t even remember her name, so why did I care so much about what she said? Why did her words sting me so much?

“Heard her mother’s so poor she couldn’t even get her a decent prom dress. She got an old rusty party dress, borrowed from like a cousin or something.” Another girl added. How did they know? Besides, it wasn’t a party dress, it was a ceremony dress, and it wasn’t from your cousin, it was from your mother, which made it ten times more special.

“Not that she’d need a dress anyways, right girls? Who would ever invite her to prom?” The first girl said, which we’ll call Bubblegum chewer, since she was always chewing on a pink sticky mass of sugar.

“Get out of my way.” You mumbled through gritted teeth, giving her the most dramatic eye-roll one could witness.

“What did she say? Did one of you hear her girls? I guess she’s too shocked to form coherent words.” Bubblegum chewer said. Thinking about it, we should give her a different name, maybe one that begins with S or B, if you know what I mean.

“I said, get out of my way.” I muttered, voice just slightly firmer, shoving her hand away from me.

“Or what, huh? You’ll call your boyfriend? Oh no, wait. You don’t have one!” Her minions laughed hysterically as if it had been a comedian’s joke. “You’re so lame it’s almost boring to pick on you.” She continued.

“What do you want?” I hissed, annoyed at her brattiness.

“Nothing more than to watch your humiliated and sad face at prom, where, while you’ll be the same loser loner as ever, I’ll be winning the prize for Prom queen with my amazing boyfriend!”

She spat, but, at last, moved out of the way, for you to cross the last corridor that lead to Physics class.

2nd PERSON POV

The next hour flew in a daze, and you could only hear her words on repeat in your head as you unsuccessfully tried to concentrate on your assignment. Thankfully, it was an easy test, so you handed the paper over after no less than 20 minutes and sped out of the classroom, wanting nothing more than the comfort of your tiny dorm room to console yourself.

Nevertheless, you weren’t able to rest that much, as you remembered you had to tutor Satoru for the next hour. Satoru Gojo was your complete opposite: he came from a rich family, the Gojo clan, and, as an only child, inherited all the family money and possessions. He spent most of his time partying, and when he wasn’t, you could find him in one of his immense villas, perhaps relaxing in a hot-tub, or lazily reading on one of his luxurious Italian sofas.

However, he wasn’t like the rest of the spoiled brats who attended the Academy. He was very smart, almost as much as you actually, and he was the first in his business class, one of the most difficult classes, as you’d heard.

Nonetheless, his knowledge in business all came from his father’s lectures and the books he read in his free time, since he hated studying with all his guts but had a brilliant memory. His lack of dedication and determination to study for all of the classes he took, and not just the ones he was interested in, lead to him failing his Physics class. And that was why, for three hours every week, instead of a vip bar or five star hotel, you could find the infamous Gojo Satoru sitting at the desk of your own dorm room, as you incessantly repeated the same formulas over and over, trying to get them to settle somewhere in his brain.

“I can’t do this anymoreeee. I’m tired Y/n! Can’t we go eat something? Please, I’m begging you. I’ll pay for the both of us! You know we both need a break for our hard-work.” He whined babyishly.

It was funny, really, how someone like you had been able to find a friend in someone like him. You didn’t trust him when he first asked for you to tutor him in Physics, after he’d gotten another F and you’d been once again praised by your professor for your neat essay. Hesitantly, you’d accepted to help him, earning small amounts of money (you refused to accept all of his gifts, knowing you’d never be able to repay him in any way), until you almost became “famous” for your tutoring lessons, and people had started lining up at your door in need of repetitions.

To earn some money for your college fund and for little pleasures like pastries or a dinner at a fancier restaurant once every couple weeks, you accepted to tutor most of those who’d asked you. However, while you did most of your repetition classes with more students and in an empty classroom your professor ad granted you free access to, you’d sticked to your traditions and kept tutoring Satoru alone in your dorm room, by now feeling at ease in his presence.

With how good you taught, he didn’t actually need your help anymore, and it had now turned in more of a babysitting for you, having to deal with a five year old kid in the body of a white haired blue eyes teenager with constant pregnancy-like cravings.

“Just finish your homework and we’ll head out to eat something alright?” You groaned.

He raised his fist in victory and went back to his Maths problems. They were very difficult, as you were exploring an Algebra branch that was even hard for you to understand, thought you hadn’t experienced any difficulties acing the practice tests, which meant it would probably take him quite some time to finish his load of exercises-

Your flow of thoughts was interrupted by him spinning around in your office chair, waving his paper in the air to signal he’d finished everything.

“I’m finished! Record time huh, bet even you couldn’t this!” He sang triumphal, handing you his scribbled test.

With an untrusting look in your eyes you took it in your hands, scanning the answers quickly and efficiently.

“It’s perfect, good job Satoru!” You started with a smug smile. Everyone else would’ve thought this meant they’d done a wonderful job, however, Gojo had known you for years, and knew better than to fall for your tricks. You were playing with him, but he never understood why you did what you did, so he opted to not look too much into it and just go on unfazed.

“Yeah, I know. Now go grab your coat sweetie, I’m taking you out-“ He was interrupted by you shoving his papers back in his chest.

“Except for this exercise here. It’s wrong.” You pointed out victoriously. “You’ll never be as good as me if you let yourself fall for these little Math tricks.”

His eyes widened in realization, as he looked back at the red marks on a scribbled section of his papers, discovering his mistake.

“Oh come oooonnnnn!!” He whined, correcting his answers with a grumble.

You spun around, going to grab your coat as he finished rewriting.

Soon after, you found yourself eating a pistachio and salted almond flavored ice cream, as he devoured his plain chocolate cone, the same flavor he had always eaten since he’d first taken you out to eat ice cream.

“You know, growing up means trying out more ice cream flavors than chocolate.” You told him.

“Blah blah blah. You’re just jealous.” He spat like a stubborn child.

“Of what exactly, if I may?” You asked, smiling.

“You’re jealous I can never get bored of something as simple as chocolate ice cream eating it almost every day.”

“Oh no I already knew that.” You chuckled, to which he eyed you confusedly.

“Well, if you got bored of simple things we wouldn’t be hanging out anymore.” You said, mind still going back to what the gum chewer had told you earlier that day.

“She’s still giving you trouble?” He asked, though the compassionate look in his eyes showed he already knew the answer.

Becoming friends with Satoru, meant having someone else that cared about you and knew everything you went through, and not only growing accustomed to randomly find him sleeping on your couch. He was the sneakiest and most protective kid you’d ever met, so it was either you gave him the passcode to enter your dorm room freely, or he’d find it out on his own. He said it was to bother you, but you knew, deep down, he card for you and wanted to check on you every once in a while. Ever since the beginning of your relationship, you’d come to know about his attachment issues, caused by the lack of a parental figure he experienced growing up. Because of his parents’ hard work ethic, he never actually spent time with them, and was usually left on his own or with a random babysitter who only put up with his childish acts for the money. You’d come to realize that was the main reason for which he acted like such a baby all the time: he wasn’t needy or childish, not even egotistical or wannabe the center of attention all-the-time, he just wanted somebody to look out for him and care about him, a role which you’d been grateful to fulfill all these past years.

“You know you mustn’t listen to what she say, right? She’s dumb and her brain has melted with all the chemicals she puts in her hair and on her face in an unsuccessful attempt to hide her wicked witch of the east’s features.” He said, breaking the forming silence.

“Yeah, I know.” You sighed, still unsure of what you felt about this whole situation.

Sighing, he stopped you mid-track, grabbed you by the shoulders and looked in your eyes, as if he was trying to connect his mind to yours. “What’s bothering you?”

“I mean, she’s right…” You mumbled under your breath, voice just over a whisper, only loud enough for his trained ears to hear.

“I’m a loner. I don’t actually have any friends, aside from you, and I don’t have all the luxurious she takes for granted. I don’t party, I don’t go shopping or to the hair or beauty salon, I don’t like loud noises, I don’t have a boyfriend and lets admit it, even if I wanted to get with someone, who would ever want to put up with me and my weirdness?” You said, looking at your shoes.

He scoffed, chuckling. “Hoe many times do I have to tell you: you aren’t weird or a loser, you’re Y/n. And you with your life and your way of living are worth infinite times more than she would ever dream of! Besides, I’m sure there’s someone out there, maybe you even know him already, who’s perfect for you. You just have to realize it.”

“You’re right, as usual.” You said, shoulders slumping.

He pulled you in the tightest hug possible, almost like he never wanted to let go, and it took you guys a while to get detached from each other.

“There’s still a problem isn’t there?” He asked.

“I don’t have a date for prom!” There, you said it. A couple of years ago, if you’d asked what your younger version about prom, she would probably have said that it was a party where bored teenagers got drunk with their daddies money, and while you still believed it was true, part of you lingered to participate, to dance with someone who actually wanted to be with you, not because he needed you to explain him a Computer Science subject or give him your homework, but because he enjoyed spending time with you, heck, even liked you-or, even better, loved you, though you were kind of scared to use the l word right now.

You already knew who you would’ve wanted to dance with, but things were perfect with him right now and you wouldn’t risk ruining it for anything. Ever since you’d first met him and his smart brain in Business class, the only kid who could actually compete with you in some subjects, you’d been head over heels for his blue eyes, confident yet funny charisma, childish behavior and weird likings. However, you knew his parents were very strict, being a pretty powerful and rich family, so they’d never let their precious only son, heir to their patrimony, be in a relationship with someone like you, a nobody from a poor family who had fought her way in life for even the smallest and most banal luxuries. He already risked getting in trouble for being friends with you with his very controlling and over-protective mom, and you didn’t want to mess up his relationship with his parents, which was already crumbling in pieces, or to ruin your friendship with him.

“I’ll go with you!” His words came out before he could even realize it.

“What?!” You said loudly, shocked at his remark.

“I-I mean, what did you just say?” You asked hesitantly, not sure if you wanted to know the answer.

“I said, I’ll take you to prom, as friends! What do you think?” He asked.

Right now, you could feel your heart racing and drilling holes in your chest with how strong it thumped. Had you had time think about it, even briefly, you were 100% sure you would’ve declined his request, knowing it would only mess up your contradicting feelings for him furthermore, but you didn’t have time. In the heat of the moment, you threw all your doubts and fears out of the window, and without wasting any time, you responded: “Yes!”

Your boldness must’ve made him step back a second, as he became the shocked one.

“Of course! I’d love to go with you! A-as friends obviously.”

“Great then!…” He scratched the back of his neck as a bubble of awkward silence trapped you both.

“Yes, great…” You replied, playing with your rings so you wouldn’t have to face the handsome male in from of you and risk fainting right then and there.

“I-I’ll get going then. I have lots of homework to do.” His brows were corrugated in what you believed was anxiousness.

“Yeah, me too. It was good to see you though!” You responded, spinning on your heels and turning your back to him to get away from this uncomfortable situation as quickly as possible.

“You too and erm, Y/n?” You could feel his presence behind you, even if he hadn’t moved an inch.

“Yes Satoru?” You stopped without looking back.

“The Academy is this way…” He explained.

“Right, sorry!” You apologized, cringing internally just as the words were out of your mouth. Your brain was short-circuiting. What was happening? Was this what losing your sanity felt like?

“What are you sorry for?” He chuckled light-heartedly. Okay, now you knew you wee about to faint. How could he make you this nervous and not be affected by it? He seemed to have everything in control, nonchalant and as handsome and ready as you’d ever imagined.

You simply chuckled in response, unable to form any coherent words.

Instead, you gave him a tight lipped smile and going to walk in front of him wight away, not wishing another embarrassing figure for yourself this evening.

That was when you realized, you were down bad for him. But shh, it was meant to be a secret! He couldn’t know, not now, not ever! It would ruin the only friend you’d had in years. He obviously didn’t like you back, right? Or at least that was what you thought.

Thank you for reading, I hope you liked it. You're welcome to come check out my account and my other posts and/or make requests :) (MASTERLIST) Do NOT plagiarize this or any of my content.

Do you think I should make a part 2? I kind of already have something in mind but let me know in the comments if you have any specific ideas for part 2!

Love you guys! See you soon!😘

Written by crazycat010 © 2025 crazycat010

[siravalondulac]

tell me, who still holds you in such high esteem, besides me | j. snow x fem!oc

part 4 of the modern!holiday au

summary: jon has doubts on where his career should go next. cerelle helps ease them in more than one way.

contents: modern au, labour day/may 1st, smut (phone sex, mutual masturbation, dirty talk)

words: 2552

author's note: when someone finds out which song i've been naming this au after it will be so over for me

tag list: @sunraysoverthevalley @idohknow

masterlist | additional works masterlist

previous | next

"I miss you."

"I miss you more."

"I miss you most."

He hears Cerelle chuckle at the other end of the line. "You've become so needy."

"Maybe that's what happens when my girlfriend abandons me after we’ve only been together for a week."

She gasps in pretend offense. "I will simply kidnap you next time and take you with me."

He knows he should not like the thought as much as he does, and to suppress the heat rising in his cheeks he quickly changes the topic.

"How is Oldtown?"

"It's beautiful." The smile in her voice is audible. "The citadel is so much bigger than you'd think looking at it from the outside. There are so many parks and museums and the public transport is actually reliable, can you believe it?"

He hums. "Sounds like a dream."

"It is. Everyone at the seminar is so friendly, I truly wonder why I chose to study in King's Landing. They took me to see the beach yesterday." She is quiet for a moment before she adds, "I'm taking you here in the summer."

"Are you so sure I'll like it?"

"I know you will."

Cerelle's life sounds so wonderful, even if he has heard her despair about the volume of her coursework on more than one occasion, and even if he does believe her words that law is one of the most difficult things to study. Especially at Blackwater Private University, which is the kind of elite institution that expects exclusively top grades from its students.

She likes it, is what she says after every rant. She likes what she will be able to achieve with her degree, the change she will be able to affect in the world. The seminar she is currently on is part of that - a whole week all about public defense, something that is not focused on in the slightest in her normal university.

He loves hearing the passion in her voice, and knows any doubt seeping past is only momentary.

“How are things at work?”

“Uh, good, I think.” He drops down on his bed. “Same as always. Although…”

“Yes?”

Oh, how desperately he wishes she were here now. She could hold him in her arms and gently pet his hair and assure him it would all turn out well. Conversations over the phone never give him what he truly desires.

“I might need some advice,” he says.

“Of course. What is it I can help you with?”

He clears his throat. “Uh, so…” How is he supposed to begin this? “As you know, I am not a mechanic, even though I work at a car shop and sometimes help with fixing up the cars and bikes that come in. I mostly do delivery work, carry around heavy stuff, and generally do anything the others have no time for.” He pauses for a moment. “Well, my boss, he… He told me today that he thinks I have genuine talent. He is good friends with the principal at one of the trade schools, and so even though the enrollment window for next year has already passed, he could still get me in. I could become an actual mechanic.”

“Jon, that is wonderful.”

His lip trembles and he presses the back of his hand to his eyes. “Yeah, it's just… I don't know if I want to do it.”

“Why?”

“I mean, I never planned to work there in the first place, it just sort of happened out of necessity. And what if I start the school and it turns out I don't like it? What then? I don't have any other options.”

“And would it be so bad if you hated it?” she asks carefully. “At least then you know being a mechanic isn't for you.”

“I would waste a month of my life. Maybe more.”

“Time spent on finding yourself can never be called a waste.”

He considers her words, turns the possibilities around in his head. “And if I don't like it, what then?”

“Then you find something you do like. The world is so big, you cannot possibly have discovered everything there is.”

“Why is this so complicated?” he says with a groan.

Cerelle laughs. “That's life, Jon. If it were easy you'd destroy the entire industry of self-help books.”

He wants to join in, wants to chuckle and make fun of their weird world, but he still can’t.

“There’s also…” He turns to the side, pressing a pillow to his stomach. “What would your family say when they find out you're dating a mechanic?”

She is silent for a moment. “Jon-” The name feels so soft coming from her lips. “You should not base your future on strangers’ opinions.”

“They'll not be strangers soon.”

“You shouldn't base them on friends’ opinions either. Or mine. You have to think of yourself, and of what you want out of life and your career. And only if you sincerely cannot decide between two equally great options, then you can take other people into consideration.”

(He wonders how much of her own experience guided that monologue.)

It sounds right, and like a reasonable thing to do. Yet the mere notion he could be selfish for once and have no one admonish him for it feels strange. Uneasy.

“Is there a way to make the decision easier?” he asks.

“How about you tell me every positive and negative about trade school?”

Yes, he thinks. That's easy, he can do that.

“Well,” he starts. “If I go through with it I will finally have a degree. I will earn more, I could switch to a different workplace if I want to, I could even open my own shop. During school, I can apply for grants, so even if I work less I will survive.”

Cerelle waits a moment before she asks, “And the negatives?”

“It's been so long since I've attended school, I fear I might have unlearned how to, well, learn.”

“I could help you with that, if you want. What else?”

“The school is not very close to my apartment. And even with grants, if my landlord raises the rent again I will get evicted.”

“Is there a student dormitory? Larger schools typically have one, you could try to get a place there.”

That is… actually not such a bad idea, he realises. It would solve the problem of living in Flea Bottom, the problem of the unreliable power supply, the problem of the constantly fluctuating rent, and the problem with Ygritte now knowing where he lives.

(He doesn’t like talking to Cerelle about that last thing. She has already done so much for him, it would feel unfair to burden her with the knowledge he now looks over his shoulder every time he walks home in the evening.)

“Anything else?” she asks.

“Besides the thing with your parents-”

“Which doesn't count.”

“Yeah, which doesn't count.” He takes a breath. “There's nothing else.”

“Then it sounds like the choice should be pretty easy.”

And maybe that's the thing that he fears most. That the solution has always been right at his fingertips.

“It will all turn out well, Jon. You’ll see.”

“Easy for you to say.”

She is quiet for a few moments, and he fears he has angered her in some way, but then she says, “Would you like me to help you relax a bit? Distract you from all that?”

“How?”

“Tell me, my love, what are you doing right now?”

He will never not blush at hearing that nickname.

“Uh, I'm lying in bed.” He clears his throat. “Nothing special.”

“Mmh, the one we had sex in for the first time?”

“Yeah, I don't have another one.”

Cerelle laughs. “Tell me, do you ever lay there awake at night thinking about me? About what you could do to me if I were there?”

He wants to answer, yet finds no words.

“Or what I could do to you? I believe I still owe you one orgasm.”

“Yeah, uh-”

“When I get back, what is the first thing you will do?”

He tries to shift his hips so his pants don’t constrict his dick so uncomfortably. “Uh, I think I’ll kiss you.”

“And then?”

“I’ll kiss you again.”

She laughs once more, the sound, even across the distance, driving him insane. “Oh, Jon. It seems as if I will have to take charge when I return.” He hears her shifting on whatever bed or couch she is lying on. “After you have kissed me until we are both dizzy, I will press you against the door like I did our very first night together. Then I will fall to my knees, and slowly start unbuckling your belt and opening your jeans. I will pull them and your underwear down just enough so I can wrap my fingers around your-”

“Cerelle.”

“What? Are you hard already?” He hears the smile in her voice. “That’s not fair, I had a whole monologue planned.”

“Is this your definition of relaxation?”

“It is, if you finally start masturbating as I talk.”

He has to bite down on his lip to stop the moan from spilling out, and even though he presses a hand on the bulge in his pants, it brings him little relief.

“Have you never touched yourself to the thought of me?”

Of course he has. But how could he ever tell her that? How could he ever tell her that he spilled into his hands more times than he could count while she was fasting? All while chanting her name like a prayer into the thin fabric of his pillow.

“Once or twice maybe,” he breathes out.

“Yeah, me too.” She takes an audible breath. “It feels strange. I’ve never done that with anyone.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Usually I am quite content with just the sex but with you… You are constantly on my mind, my love, and I am helpless to stop it.”

He doesn't even feel that terrible when he squeezes his dick through the fabric of his jeans, because it seems she would have done the same. Is perhaps doing the same, right this very moment.

“Could you continue?” he breathes out. “What you were saying before.”

“Of course, my love. Would you like to remind me where I left off?”

There is that undertone to her voice again, that downright seductive nature to her words that makes him go mad.

“Y- You just took my pants off.”

“Ah, yes.” She chuckles. “I would have just pulled down your jeans and underwear to wrap my fingers around your dick and drag it out. It will already be hard, and just a few strokes of my hand will make it throb and leak. I will put the tip in my mouth to lick up the pre that is escaping, but then quickly remove it again and start beating you off.”

He groans, louder than he should have, and quickly presses the palm of his hand against his dick.

“I will take you slowly,” she says. “Carefully run my tongue along your length, trace the veins and kiss the head until you almost collapse into your arms. Only then will I take you fully into my mouth. But I will be slow, slow enough to never get you close to release, slow enough to make you last the entire night.”

And then he moans, loud and clear, and he quickly has to slap his hand over his mouth to muffle the sound.

“Jon.” Cerelle's already deep voice has dropped another octave. “Take out your cock.”

How she knows he still hasn't opened his pants is beyond him, yet he doesn't dare question her and hastily follows her commands.

He doesn’t undress, only pushes his clothes just far enough down to wrap his hand around his dick and pull it free, giving it a long and duly needed stroke from base to tip. Everything would be dirty afterwards, and he'd likely need to change even his sheets, but he does not care. Not when Cerelle starts speaking again.

“Can you go nice and slow for me? Can you control yourself, my love?”

“N- No. Not when you call me that.”

She laughs. Quietly, hoarsely, and the hiccup in her voice tells him she might be touching herself as well.

“Then tell me what you are doing,” she says softly.

He feels so terribly stupid relaying all his actions to her. His cheeks burn from embarrassment even as he rubs the pre escaping from his tip all across his dick, and then twists his fist harshly, making him moan even louder than before and interrupting his words.

“Sounds like you're enjoying this,” Cerelle says breathlessly.

“What are you doing?” he asks desperately. “Please, I have to know.”

“Rubbing my clit and wishing it was your tongue instead.”

Somehow, he can almost taste her essence in his mouth despite the hundreds of kilometres separating them.

“What else?” The hand on his dick speeds up, his hips slightly thrusting off the bed ever so often.

“I'm slipping my fingers further downward, circling my hole, and slowly starting to insert one of them.”

“Do it faster.” He moans. “I want to come with you.”

“You could slow down, if you're so desperate.”

And yet based on the silent squelching he hears, and the way her gasps and whines pick up, she has adhered to his command.

(It makes him feel… strangely powerful.)

Those are the last words spoken between them, because both of them start to become too focused on chasing their individual releases - yet still urged on by the sounds of the other.

Jon fucks his fist properly now. His hips snap upward the same time his hand comes down towards the base, almost mirroring that time Cerelle rode his cock.

A moan escapes his mouth.

He likes masturbating, likes hearing his girlfriend's chants in his ear as he does it even more, likes imagining she is just as lost to the pleasure as he is. And yet he knows it should be her hand around his dick right now. Her long and slender fingers, still so incredibly soft, running along his length as he hugs her close to himself and buries his face in the crook of her neck.

When she comes back, he will suggest it to her.

Minutes pass. Perhaps hours. Then Cerelle moans out his name - long and pronounced - and the knowledge she has just come makes him reach his own orgasm in no time.

His hand is sticky afterwards and his clothes definitely in need of a proper wash.

“Are you alright?” she asks. “How are you feeling?”

“So good. Thank you for this.”

She hums, and he wonders if he could ever hear her sing. “Well, I got something out of this, too. Which means I’m still only one behind.”

He smiles at the mention of their game. “You will regret the day you challenged me.”

They keep the call up as they clean themselves, drink some water, and slip into different clothes. Neither of them suggested it, they simply… do.

Afterwards, as he sits on his bed and stares out of the window into the dark night, and she asks him if he has decided where to take his future, he has an answer.

previous | next

author's note: because even karl marx said "if you want to dismantle capitalism, you first need to have hot, steamy phone sex"

anyway, i hope y'all liked this chapter. it's a bit shorter than what's typical of this au, but the two chapters on mother's day should make up for that (yes, you read that right. two chapters.)

[okamiden-holiday-special]

Abandoned: Dogs See Dogs - Modern AU [Clara-centric, gen]

the title may give you preconceived notions but i assure you this is not anything you'd expect from me. this is from a defunct modern au of gorkhon that i used to sketch stuff for during class, not much to say for myself given how i don't think of it much anymore

Clara was in trouble. Nothing she couldn't settle, of course, she was adept at solving issues, it was the sole reason she was still alive. Probably. She honestly couldn't recall clearly most details of her life leading up to this moment. Either way, she needed cash, because she was almost certain she'd be turning 18 in a few months and she knew what happened to kids in shelters who became legal adults. She had to leave her foster parents at some point in the near future, the Saburovs didn't need her brand of trouble on top of their already notable pile of responsibilities managing the hellscape that was the school year-round. 

The campus was quiet as she lurked, dawn threatening to break in the next hour or so. Gorkhon University, funded by Olgimsky Enterprises and built by the Stamatin Brothers and Co with direction from the Kain Institute of Science and Education, headed by the Saburov Group of directorial principals. A private school with unorthodox practices like open program learning and an overpriced list of extracurricular coursework, public access libraries and laboratories alongside private collections of anything ranging from artwork and literature to patented chemical formulas for pharmaceutical drugs, student housing going from absurdly cheap studio aps to bizarrely expensive lofts, and sporting a passable high school campus as well as a very well-rounded college education program. 

It was conceptually utopic and functionally a mess of bureaucracy all the way up and down the chain of endless systems keeping it all from crumbling under its own weight. At least the three pillars kept each other in check, and consequently themselves busy enough to make loitering the grounds a minor offense overlooked at most times. 

The architects that made the place opted for the baffling design choice of having as many alleyways and pavilions between buildings as there were open streets and elevated walkways connecting everything, like a freaky attempt at an architectural nervous system. Worst of all, it worked like a charm to maneuver places easily without crowding the main pathways between building sectors. Clara thought that the librarian, or whatever position Lyuricheva held officially, deserved more credit for being the glue to the Stamatins' barely cohesive vision for the buildings. planning all the roads seemed like a nightmare when taking into account the creative decisions Peter Stamatin adamantly defended and Andrey Stamatin made a reality.

As it were, Clara was glad for the elevated footpath she took, because it led her to the most fateful piece of glossy A4 paper she encountered up to this juncture of her life. It was in a graphic artstyle with neon colors highlighting the text “Diamond Dogfight: Battle of the Bands!” at the top of a rather crowded poster. Below there were cut-out pictures of people singing into microphones or playing what one could presume to be sick guitar riffs. Alongside the images were a few blocks of text reading “Participate in the newest talent scouting efforts of the Ace of Diamonds Theater and Circus Troupe! Sign up today with at least two other bandmates and compete in a tournament-style round-robin elimination competition. Impress our panel of judges to win a grand prize of 100,000 rubles!!” and she spotted a QR code at the bottom corner alongside an email address and phone number labeled “Ace of Diamonds contact info”.

 She barely registered her phone in her hand, mind running wild thinking about how neat and tidy this solved all her problems as she scanned the code, which led to a sleek website sporting a huge block of logos at the top she could imagine was a list of sponsors. In that list was the clock of the Kain Institute, the bull of the Olgimsky Industries, the bold S of the Saburov Group, as well as some smaller icons depicting the Steppen symbol of the Khatanghe Initiative Fund, the geometric logo of Polyhedron Project and the blazon of the Town Hall. Clara was almost amused by how the three big logos competed for attention, the two at the sides raised a bit above the one in the center, clearly a design choice settled on after a long argument by the families as to how to make them equal in the layout.

She skimmed over the introduction page below that had the same text as the poster before tapping on a tab labeled “Rules and Sign-Up”. A much less cluttered page listed numbered rules about band size (3-10 with two categories for smaller and larger bands), song lengths (3-6 minutes barring extraneous circumstances), set decoration and costumes (irrelevant for scoring), the validity of cover songs (valid, but evaluated on different grounds compared to originals), going for about 20 bullet points. The interesting part was the List of Clauses, an additive ruleset about optional gimmicks in the competition. 

Clara’s attention honed into a topic called the “Dog Eat Dog Clause”, which stated the following: “a band may only add members during the competition if they are from another group the band defeated previously, but a member can only be added if they were the last group defeated by the stated band; only one member may be gained each round, and this clause is only valid if all parties agree to the partnership and the resulting band does not exceed the member limit of their given category. The Board of Judges will not be mediating disputes between bands, and any deals involving splitting the prize or other such topics are not to be brought up to the organizers.”

Now, Clara knew she wasn't exactly the epitome of popularity, so this rule opened some doorways for her to advance in the competition without having the strongest starting lineup of players. If she could just get two halfway decent musicians to join her for the first set, even if one left in the middle of the tournament she could still convince her rivals to lend her a member. 

She scrolled until she reached the sign-up form, skimming it halfheartedly until something caught her eye. In small print at the bottom of the form was printed the phrase “Only participants of the student body or junior faculty members are eligible for the cash prize. This includes Gorkhon High and Gorkhon University students and faculty. Outside competitors are eligible for a scholarship negotiated with the Gorkhon Board of Directors if chosen as winners.” She vaguely heard the sound of metaphorical doors closing at that moment

--

Having a teenage girl wander around the university campus was never an overly common sight, but it wasn't bizarre enough to warrant comments, so Clara trudged the halls on what she had decided to call a scouting operation. She wanted the prize, she really did, but there were a few issues with that. Specifically the fact that she was never officially enrolled in either the High School or the University division of Gorkhon. 

She was morally the foster child of the Saburovs, but she had no documents proving her legal existence, so she couldn't enroll in school very easily, and she was only taken in recently, so it'd be weird to ask to enroll at this point, especially since she had no recollection of prior school experience necessary for an entry test. The Saburovs let her have total freedom outside of the house, and she could leave whenever she wanted, so it never came up and they were rather neglectful in regards to such things, in truth. Sure, they fed and housed her, but after she was deemed independent they let her do whatever she wanted. 

But back to the issue at hand. She could try to forge a student ID with the level of access her foster parents had. She almost did that, but she had looked at the panel of judges on the website of the competition and immediately shot down the idea. Student Body President of Gorkhon High, Victoria “Capella” Olgimskaya Jr was one of the main judges, and she'd get caught in an instant if she were to pretend to attend, and it's in the middle of semester, so not even the transfer student excuse would work. Therefore, she would attempt the boldest, most unexpected maneuver of all: convince Gorkhon U students or junior faculty that she was totally a student of some obscure college and they should very much trust her and join her band.

She'd been wandering for about an hour, and there were some noteworthy candidates, but she needed to be subtle in her choices. Her bandmates needed to be quick-thinking or skilled enough to pick up an instrument and play it alongside her, but gullible enough to take part in her scheme. Potential business partners needed to have motivation to win but not demand too much compensation, so either someone meek but skilled or an arrogant talent that could be easily swindled.

It was 7 am by the time she strolled around a dark corner outside the science lab building, where she spotted a figure hunched over in what she could see as a biology or medical sciences lab littered with papers, books and various sundry chemicals. Whoever it was had been there for a long time, and their shoulders were hunched shallowly over a microscope, left hand scribbling furiously on a notepad without raising their eyes from the tool. She decided to do some recon. 

--

Daniil Dankovsky had spent all night trying fruitlessly to make some kind of breakthrough in his research into human vitality and death. That's what she could gather from observing him from outside after she came back from her extended reconnaissance. At this point he seemed to just be analyzing chemical components of random solutions he found in the lab, noting cell behavior and whatnot for the hell of it. 

Med school alumnus, pathophysiology consultant and researcher endorsed by the Kains, he had the run of the lab until morning classes started without supervision, which was somewhat remarkable in itself. Apparently he was also dead tired, as his writing was decreasing in quality from “cursive doctor handwriting” to “not picking up the pen from the paper and gliding every word together like lopsided fairy lights”. 

Clara poked her head into the lab from her position on the window, which was brightly lit by the morning sun. The thin curtains drawn over the windows fluttered in the breeze and ruffled the man's hair as he muttered unintelligible things under his breath. She knocked on the glass, watching as he stopped his ministrations to push his dark bangs away from his pale face. He looked objectively terrible, and the girl cleared her throat to no avail in a futile attempt at being acknowledged. Nothing. She slid over the windowsill and dropped soundlessly into the room, smelling the sharp tang of chemicals and coffee from the bench where the Bachelor of Medicine worked. 

Clara had been elaborating a game plan for the past two hours, debating what kind of people she should recruit to get what she wanted. She had settled on students from an area not directly involved with the arts, as to not be overthrown by her bandmates. Alongside that, anyone in the field of psychology or sociology might be curious about herself and her supposed major, and that was dangerous if she wanted to keep up her ruse of being a student, as well as the more sociable students of such fields possibly not accept her as a classmate if they don't recognize her. Her final choice was a field of research technical and precise enough to have decent musicians but eccentric and busy enough not to question her presence in the school. Med students. 

She hopped onto the table where the man worked, decided on who to try to recruit. Clara probably wouldn't get very far with this one, but a test run of her script wouldn't hurt. She had seen him working since she started scouting, and when asked about him the staff and assorted students around the block informed her of his habits and name, and she brought up as many files as she could access about him from the directorial database. He was a maniac. 

“Muttering gibberish, are you? Perhaps you should vacate the lab soon, your time's almost up anyway, Dr Dankovsky. Get some rest.”

The man startled next to her, and he jerked his head towards her in a manner befitting a spooked lizard. Or perhaps a snake. He looked her up and down before speaking “It's not gibberish, it's latin. And I don't have a doctorate.” His eyes narrowed at her. “Which you would know if you knew my name. Who are you, little girl? Why are you here?”

Interesting that he'd seem offended by her using a title above his station with him. Most men that entrenched in their own work would preen at being overestimated. Still, she had to answer. “I heard you were hoarding the lab, thought I might come in and burst your science bubble to let you know. A favor, you could say.” At his suspicious look she added “I'm Clara.”

“Daniil Dankovsky, Bachelor of Medicine and founder of Thanatica.” Thanatica. She'd seen that somewhere before. “Although you already knew my name. How did you get in here? The door is locked, I don't like being disturbed.” he added, almost as an afterthought. She looked back at the window, then at him. He gaped for a moment before schooling his expression into a look of disbelief. “We’re on the second floor.”

“I didn't say anything!” she quipped, smile in place. This was turning out to be more fun than anticipated. “Anyway, regardless, you might need to vacate the premises in a few minutes. I was hoping to take up a little of your precious time to make a proposition.” Dankovsky looked dubiously over her before she added “business proposition, that is.” which didn't really make a dent in his expression. She stifled a giggle as he shrugged, a gesture that seemed uncharacteristic of somebody who put so much effort into seeming competent and intellectual, but he was fresh off an all nighter, so it's to be expected. 

The Bachelor picked up his things, shoving a comical amount of hardcover books into his bag alongside three separate notebooks filled with sticky notes and tabs. She busied herself with the microscope, fiddling with the dials and cataloguing every fidget she could draw out of Dankovsky with her callous handling of delicate equipment. As he closed his, frankly, extremely unwieldy oversized handbag, he snapped at her “Stop messing with that! You'll break something and I'm the one who'll pay for it.”

Clara was a little taken aback by the silence as they trudged out after Dankovsky locked the lab back up. She curiously followed in his steps, wondering when he would finally ask what she wanted, but wanting to see where his steps would lead. They were going the scenic route to some place, she could tell that much, as he followed brick pathways through patios and wove his way through elevated walkways in the vague direction of either the joint campus cafeteria or the Gorkhon Library. She periodically stepped on the backs of his leather shoes, successfully removing one entirely on her third try. He tripped but managed not to fall on his face, turning towards her with a murderous glare. Clara smiled crookedly and brought her hands up in surrender. 

“You're a little pest, girl, and you're successfully lowering my willingness to listen to your proposition with every passing moment.”

[austinstahl]

City Paper is Dead, Long Live City Paper

It's hard to describe, to someone who's never experienced it, the pleasure of being a part of something you'd previously loved from the outside. It's what I imagine it might feel like to be drafted by the team you grew up rooting for.

I'd been reading the Baltimore City Paper since high school in the late ’90s, when I'd pick up a copy on occasional trips into the city, and it was a window into a world of arts and music and general adult freedom that I longed to enter. After I moved to Baltimore for college, it became an indispensable companion to the city I was now exploring, and to a growing music scene that I was attempting to infiltrate. And it was a consistent source of great writing about things I cared about — it seems weird to say now, but at the time, it was not easy to find genuinely good writing on the internet — with great photography and illustration alongside it.

So when, as a newly-minted college grad in 2004, I got invited in for a job interview after an acquaintance had recommended me, it was both exciting and surreal to see where this thing I loved got made. (I believe the only time I ever used the stately front entrance to the offices at 812 Park Ave, a converted Mt Vernon rowhouse mansion, was for that interview; staffers, as I soon learned, customarily slipped in via the back alley.) I had spent the previous several months searching for a “real” graphic design job, and this City Paper position was for a production assistant, so I wasn't entirely sure it was the right move, but it seemed like too much fun to pass up. Even for a measly $12 an hour.

It was. The vibe of the Production department was like being in a class populated entirely by class clowns, on a day where you had a substitute: You knew you'd need to get your work done eventually, but in the meantime a feeling of let's-see-what-we-can-get-away-with anarchy hung over the whole enterprise. We occupied a large room on the second of the building's three floors, appropriately between Editorial (above) and Advertising (below). There, six of us laid out some parts of the paper—whatever wasn't handled directly by Joe, our goofily ebullient art director—and designed a massive number of small ads for local advertisers. (We offered this service for free, and it was like layout boot camp.) Music was usually blaring from a boombox perched on the mantel of what had once been a bedroom fireplace, often controlled by the eclectic tastes of our senior designer Matt. A second sonic layer, made up of constant jokes and banter, floated overtop of and intertwined with the music. Even if the work itself sometimes felt like drudgery, I was never bored.  

On Mondays, we worked a 12-hour shift as final ad approvals came up the stairs from Advertising and final article edits came down the stairs from Editorial, all needing to be placed onto pages. At dinnertime we'd wait anxiously for a call from the basement to tell us the company-provided pizzas had arrived, and then march down past “the morgue,” where nearly thirty years' worth of papers were archived—a weekly reminder that this madcap pursuit had a long history (longer, indeed, than my life to that point).  

I'd gotten a lot of advice in design school about making sure my first job was one where I could keep on learning, and while I'm not sure that CP was quite the type of job these advice-givers had in mind, I was undoubtedly learning plenty: When to push back against bad ideas (no, Mr Advertiser, the fact that the ad we designed for you contains a few slivers of white space does not mean that we can now cram 50% more content in) and when to grin and bear them (usually making private use of my colleague Rebecca's oft-repeated saying: “If that's what you want...”). How to wrangle disparate pieces of content into a coherent whole (it was our job to create “The Map” that determined which content/ads went onto which pages, no small task when we had so many different ad sizes that we used the letters of the alphabet to refer to them). How to keep your cool when the pressure was on and tensions were rising.

And though I didn't fully recognize it at the time, I was beginning to learn that publication design was what I was meant to do; I loved spending my days working alongside people who were putting something of value into the world. As difficult as I found the schedule—after Monday's 12-hour slog, you'd grab some sleep and then head right back for the mad dash of Tuesday morning, sending pages off to the printer—I immediately appreciated too that if a week's work wasn't your best, well, you didn't have to wait long for a chance to do it better.

After a little less than a year, though, I was growing weary of that weekly grind. Adding to my weariness was the peculiar mix of entitlement and insecurity that perhaps only young twentysomethings can feel with the ferocity that I did; I felt that my numerous design talents were not being properly utilized as a mere Production department drone, and simultaneously feared that dronehood was perhaps all I was capable of. It didn't take long for this mixture to curdle into a bad attitude that I evidently didn't hide well—at some point that summer, our production director, Athena, called me down into the alley (the only place one could have a private discussion at 812 Park) to ask if I really wanted to be working there. I admitted, to her and to myself, that I didn't.

(Athena, thank you for putting up with me.)

So I moved on. I only worked at the paper for less than a year, but that time has taken on an outsized importance in the life story I tell myself, looking back with a dozen years' distance. As short as my tenure was, I had the privilege of being a small part of this local institution, this forty-year history of documenting and shaping the social and cultural life of my city. There's a pride in that, which I expect will never go away.

City Paper itself, of course, has now gone away, killed by its parent company earlier this month. Count me among those who felt the paper had experienced a sharp decline in quality and consistency in recent years, though to be fair, at least some of that must have been due to rapidly shrinking resources. Certainly they were still capable of great heights: their dispatches from the summer's Baltimore Ceasefire and their longform deep dive into sexual harassment and abuse in the arts scene, to name two from the final few months, were engrossing and important pieces. These are the kind of community-serving features that they seem ready to continue in new form over at the Baltimore Beat, which launched this week under the leadership of some recent CP vets. I look forward to following it.

City Paper's demise has been framed widely as a symptom of the 21st-century media landscape, where the internet has killed print advertising so thoroughly that no free print media can survive, but apparently CP was still profitable—just not profitable enough for the corporation that chose to end it. The narrative that it really fits into is the one where more and more independent media entities, print and digital alike, are bought up by the rich and powerful and don't always survive the whims of their new patrons.

I still have a copy of the first issue of City Paper I worked on, from October 20, 2004. It contains 136 pages (compare this to the final issue's 40) and lists fifty-one employees on the masthead, not counting contributors or distribution. (Baltimore Beat's full-time roster, reportedly: five.) So, yeah, independent media in 2017 is leaner in more ways than one. But I think it can still be a force, a beacon to draw kids like me to cities like ours, and a vital resource for those who are already here. Even if there are fewer opportunities to be drafted by the home team, I have to believe that there are new teams to start, new games to invent that we haven't yet dreamt of.