#content pattern disruption

[the-most-humble-blog]

They didn’t reblog this because it was “good.” They reblogged it because it felt like they wrote it but never knew how.

📎 Writers, creators, overthinkers: This will reprogram how you post forever.

🧠 It doesn’t just explain writing. It shows you the weapon it can become.

Blacksite Literature™ isn’t viral. It’s formational.

Reblog if your posts were ever misunderstood, ignored, or silently bookmarked.

Reblog if you already knew that this was the style that would change your timeline.

<div style="white-space:pre-wrap"> [This post] </div>

<!-- BEGIN TRANSMISSION // BLACKSITE LITERATURE™ PUBLIC BRIEFING -->

&lt;div style="white-space:pre-wrap"&gt;

&lt;meta audience-profile="general_public"&gt;

&lt;script&gt;

ARCHIVE_TAG="BLACKSITE_SCROLLTRAP_METHOD::GENERAL_ACCESS_PROTOCOL"

EFFECT: creative activation, rhythm cognition, viral structure imprint

TRIGGER_WARNING="reality disruption, emotional recall, artistic confrontation"

&lt;/script&gt;

🧠 BLACKSITE LITERATURE™ — “THEY READ IT, THEN SHARED IT EVERYWHERE”

Let’s be honest. Most people aren’t tired of reading.

They��re tired of *not feeling anything* when they do.

Because we’ve all read a post, a paragraph, even a full book—

and walked away untouched. Unchanged.

Blacksite Literature™ is the opposite.

It’s not writing for applause.

It’s writing that *leaves a mark.*

Writing you don’t just “like”—

you remember it days later,

in the shower,

at 3 a.m.,

in the middle of an argument.

It’s writing that *doesn’t need to go viral*

to become unforgettable.

---

📚 WHAT IS BLACKSITE LITERATURE™?

Blacksite Literature™ is writing engineered to bypass resistance.

It’s literary form meets emotional sabotage.

It’s scrolltrap structure fused with cadence precision.

It’s the kind of writing that makes people pause,

feel things they didn’t expect,

and often—share it without even knowing why.

It reads like poetry.

Hits like a sermon.

Sticks like a song lyric.

It makes people gasp in silence.

Scroll back up.

Bookmark it “for later”

because it hit a nerve

they didn’t want to admit they still had.

---

🕳️ WHAT’S A SCROLLTRAP?

A scrolltrap is a pattern-interrupt.

It’s a visual *and* emotional break

in a landscape designed for speed and skimming.

You’ve seen it without realizing.

A post that didn’t look like the rest.

Had weird spacing.

Sharp phrasing.

You stopped. You read it.

Then you read it again.

Scrolltraps are:

- Built in cadence

- Structured in stanzas

- Designed for screenshot virality

- Written to break autopilot

A good scrolltrap doesn’t *tell* you to feel something.

It presses the part of your psyche

that already does.

---

🛠️ THE FORMULA (CLEAN VERSION)

We won’t give away the psychosexual variants here—

but the clean formula is powerful in its own right.

Here’s a sample contrast:

🧂 Standard writing:

> “Breakups are hard. Sometimes people grow apart.”

🧠 Blacksite cadence:

> “Some people weren’t meant to stay.

> They were meant to trigger the version of you that could.”

---

🧂 Standard:

> “You miss them even though they hurt you.”

🧠 Scrolltrap version:

> “You didn’t miss *them.*

> You missed the version of you

> that believed love couldn’t bruise.”

See the difference?

The structure.

The rhythm.

The emphasis.

This is not random.

This is *designed.*

---

📈 WHY IT PERFORMS EVERYWHERE

It performs across platforms—Tumblr, Reddit, X, Threads, IG, even TikTok voiceovers—

because it transcends formatting.

It’s *human-language.*

It’s story + emotion + structure = involuntary attention.

- On **Tumblr**, it spreads by reblog like an outbreak.

- On **Reddit**, people screenshot and treat it like forbidden gospel.

- On **Instagram**, it gets posted over selfies like emotional armor.

- On **TikTok**, it gets read out loud by crying strangers.

You don’t need ads.

You don’t need a fanbase.

You need resonance.

Scrolltrap cadence achieves that.

---

📎 EXAMPLES FROM GENERAL POSTS

These aren’t “hooks.”

These are viral anchors:

- “The love of your life might not be the one you marry. They might just be the one you had to survive.”

- “We didn’t drift apart. We just stopped pretending we were heading the same direction.”

- “He never lied to you. He just spoke in a tone that made his silence feel holy.”

- “She left you like she was late for something. That was the truth.”

Every line is layered with emotional residue.

Every stanza is a trapdoor.

No fluff. No filler.

Just direct-to-core impact.

---

📜 BLACKSITE WRITING EXERCISE: “CADENCE FIRST, MEANING SECOND”

Here’s the first technique:

Don’t start with an idea.

Start with the *feeling.*

Then build the *cadence*—

**before** you explain it.

Example prompt:

**Emotion: Regret**

Now try writing three lines where regret *echoes* in the silence.

❌ DON’T DO THIS:

> “I regret not telling her I loved her.”

✅ DO THIS:

> “I never said it.

> She never asked.

> We called that peace.”

See the difference?

You don’t need the word “regret.”

You *feel* it anyway.

Now you try.

✍️ **WRITING TASK:**

Choose *one* emotion (e.g., longing, anger, closure, pride).

Write 3 lines in the scrolltrap format.

Each line must function alone.

All 3 must land like a punch.

Bonus constraint:

**Do not name the emotion.**

This is how we train cadence-first writers.

---

🔗 WHERE TO GO NEXT

You don’t need to pay.

You don’t need to prove anything.

But if this felt different—

if your body paused somewhere during this scroll,

if your fingers hovered a second longer over the copy button—

Then you’ve already started the process.

And you know where to go next:

👉 https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence

That’s the archive.

That’s where it gets deeper, darker, sharper.

That’s where Blacksite Literature™ becomes undeniable.

---

🧘‍♂️ MENTAL ARMOR FOR CREATORS

Here’s your shield.

Your creator’s creed.

Your scrolltrap spine when doubt hits:

**“I’m not here to be understood.

I’m here to be *remembered.*”**

Write that on your mirror.

Say it when you post something no one likes—

and *still know it’s the best thing you’ve ever written.*

Say it when they mock your format,

your spacing,

your metaphors,

your silence.

Because you’re not just a writer anymore.

You’re a *voice print.*

A resonance.

An emotional event.

And events don’t ask for permission.

They change the weather and leave.

---

💬 READER REACTIONS (REAL EXAMPLES)

You’ll see things like:

> “This post ruined me. I’m sending it to my ex.”

> “I didn’t expect to cry at 8:45AM in the breakroom.”

> “Whoever wrote this: I hope you sleep well tonight. You earned it.”

> “I bookmarked this. I don't know why. But I keep coming back to it.”

That’s Blacksite Literature™.

That’s scrolltrap psychology.

That’s cadence warfare done clean.

---

🧠 FINAL THOUGHT:

This is not a genre.

This is not a phase.

This is not “cool writing.”

This is **Blacksite Literature™.**

It isn’t meant to be popular.

It’s meant to be **permanent.**

Welcome to the scrolltrap.

&lt;/div&gt;

&lt;!-- END TRANSMISSION [INTRO COMPLETE. ENGAGEMENT IMMINENT.] --&gt;

[aerialmirrorss]

𝐝 𝐚 𝐲 𝐥 𝐢 𝐠 𝐡 𝐭 ⋆ ˚｡⋆ 𝜗𝜚 ˚｡˚ ⋆ nicholas a. chavez

playing: 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 by taylor swift 𝜗𝜚˚｡˚ ⋆

synopsis! reader woke up late for work but nicholas, your boyfriend, wishes to stay in bed longer..

paring: nicholas chavez x fem!reader

warnings: lots of fluff , sexual content + unprotected sex! oral (f! receiving) , fingering , mature , 18+ (minors dni!)

word count: 2.5k

⋆ ˚｡⋆ 𝜗𝜚 ˚｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡⋆ 𝜗𝜚 ˚｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡⋆ 𝜗𝜚 ˚｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡⋆ 𝜗𝜚 ˚｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡⋆ 𝜗𝜚 ˚｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡

Soft sunlight filters through the thin slats of your bedroom window shades, casting patterns of light and shadow across the room. It’s not abrupt, but rather a slow increase in brightness that touches your closed eyelids, warming your skin and pulling you out of your dream. The room becomes bathed in a soft, golden glow, and as you blink awake, the light feels like a quiet reminder of the world waiting outside.

However, behind you with an arm draped around your waist and soft snores coming from his slightly parted lips laid your boyfriend, Nicholas, making you want to tell the world to fuck off, turn off the lights, and try again another day.

A soft sigh escaped your lips as you rubbed your eyes and stretched your arms making a half-asleep Nicholas stir. You smile softly and turn to face him with his eyes still shut. You ran your fingers through his tousled hair, briefly wondering how bad your own must look, before softly whispering, “Good morning.”

He hums softly, wrapping his hand around your wrist as it rests in his hair and brings it to his lips, placing a chaste kiss to your pulse. In a raspy voice, he murmurs, “Good morning, baby.”

“How’d you sleep?” You ask, your voice still low, not wanting to disrupt the stillness of this peaceful moment. It’s only Nick’s second time spending the night in your New York City apartment, the first just two nights ago.

He exhales peacefully, drawing you closer until your legs are tangled with his. “Your bed feels like sleeping on a cloud,” he murmurs.

You giggle at the sudden movement, watching as Nick plays with your fingers. Then he looks up and asks, “What are your plans for today?”

You groan at the thought of returning to reality. “I have to be at work by 8:30. I’m presenting a pitch for a headline, so I should probably start getting ready since it’s—” You stop to glance at his watch as he gently strokes the back of your hand.

“8:29?! No, no, no—fuck!” You quickly untangle yourself from his arms and get up, Nick’s shirt skimming the tops of your bare thighs as you fumble to put on your slippers. Just as you’re about to rush out of the room, Nick grabs your wrist and pulls you back into bed.

Before you knew it, your back was against the mattress again, pinned beneath Nick’s steady gaze.

“I love that shirt on you,” he uttered softly.

“Nicholas c’mon.” You ignore his remark, wiggling beneath him trying to free yourself. He however, seemed to have taken that as a damn challenge.

A smirk tugs on his pink lips before he leans down to ghost his lips against yours, teasing. It was almost like a test to see if you were gonna resist. But when you didn’t, he leaned down once again, capturing your lips between his in a slow, deliberate kiss.

In that moment, it felt as if the world slowed and everything narrowed down to just the two of you. The softness of his lips brushing against yours, a gentle pull, sparked a sensation that coursed through your entire body. There was an unspoken connection, an effortless sync as you responded to each other’s movements, and the kiss deepened naturally. His breath mingled with yours, and his touch was both tender and intense, filled with desire. Time became irrelevant; you could have stayed in that moment forever. Nothing else mattered except the feeling and Nicholas.

Nicholas. Nicholas. Nicholas...

He was all your mind could focus on.

His lips parted from yours with a soft, wet sound before trailing down your cheek, behind your ear, and slowly along your neck. The slow descent of his kisses gave your mind a fleeting chance to gather a coherent thought.

"Nick— I really need to get going," you breathe, trying to summon a resolve that feels distant in the moment.

"Do you?" he murmurs against your skin, gently nipping at your neck before soothing the spot with his tongue, drawing a gasp from your lips.

He knew all of your vulnerabilities, every spot that made you gasp for air, craving more, and he was definitely using it to his advantage. But you weren’t exactly upset about that.

Nicholas was feeling it just as intensely. Your sweet sighs and tugging of his hair as he suckled on your neck made all the blood in his body rush straight to his cock, leaving him a needy mess. And it didn’t help when he sucked on that sweet spot behind your ear, making your back arch into him and accidentally grazing his hard, throbbing bulge.

He let out a low groan at the small amount of contact and was desperate for more. Once again, his lips were on yours, more hungry and ravenous than ever. You felt the air leave your lungs when he rolled his hips into yours feeling every inch of him. The repeated action of his hips grinding into yours made you let out the softest moans against his lips, and that sound alone was enough to make Nicholas go wild.

He pulls away for a second to catch his breath as you do the same, though his hips never stop their mindless rutting against yours. He was so drunk on the taste of you, he couldn’t help but start rambling.

“Feel that? Feel what you do to me, pretty girl? Hm?” He’s breathless against your lips as he ground his hips against yours more intently, making you feel him through the barrier of your blue lace panties and his black boxer briefs.

At this point, you were ready to get fired.

Nothing would be able to drag you away from this moment with Nick, not even your fucking job.

All you could do to respond is moan into the air, hoping he wouldn’t stop. His fingers trail down to the hem of his t-shirt on your body. He lifted it just enough to reveal your navel and abdomen, kissing along the fabric as his head traveled lower and lower.

You wasted no time in discarding the nuisance item of clothing leaving you in just your underwear.

Nicholas left gentle kisses along your abdomen, trailing down in between your thighs, all the way to your ankles, then back up again.

“You’re perfect,” He whispers against your skin, his words sending shivers down your spine.

His eyes darkened as they lingered on what he craved the most, groaning in approval at the wet spot left on your underwear. You were soaking and Nicholas was ready to have a taste of your sweet nectar.

He planted a gentle kiss on your pelvis just above the little blue bow of your underwear, dragging his lips against you until he stopped right at the center.

Looking up at you through his long lashes, with a raspy voice he asks, “is this okay?”

You nod, breathlessly answering “yes.” And with that he wasted no time.

His lips pressed against your clit through the fabric, stealing your breath away. When his tongue slid slowly over the damp fabric, you couldn't hold back the moan that escaped, and he smirked against you.

“Look at you. So wet for me," he rambled, pulling the lace to the side to finally see you.

His finger glided through your folds, and he brought it to his lips, sucking it clean with his eyes closed in satisfaction.

The sight before you is so pornographic it makes you rut your hips up instinctively in hopes for some kind of friction which has him chuckling. He stops teasing you and discards your last item of clothing, leaving you completely exposed and bare to him.

Without warning, his flattened tongue swept a long, slow lick between your folds, making you cry out, your body reacting on its own as you ground against his mouth, fingers tangling in his hair.

You become dizzy as he begins to lap at your heat like a dehydrated kitten and your hips suddenly have a mind of their own, grinding against his face, hand shooting out to tangle between his brown locks.

His lips suction on your bundle of nerves and as your back arches, he plunges a finger in you starting a pace that has your eyes rolling.

“F-fuck!” You cry out, clenching around his digit as his tongue flicks your clit in different patterns that sends shocks throughout your body, that is until he inserts a second finger.

It’s amazing and almost pathetic how quickly he has you crumbling to pieces with just a flick of his tongue and fingers. Soon enough, you felt the knot in your lower stomach tightening, and Nick sensed it as well with a knowing smile, watching how tense your body was becoming.

“Gonna cum for me, princess? Huh?” He mumbles against you, never slowing the relentless pace of his fingers, feeling you clench around them so tightly, it makes him chuckle.

“C’mon baby, soak me. I wanna taste you,” His words push you over the edge off the cliff you were hanging on for dear life.

A string of moans leave your lips as your body begins to shake and convulse uncontrollably. His tongue rides you through the utter bliss, suckling and suctioning causing aftershock waves to jolt through you.

Nick runs his hands up and down your thighs, whispering praises, peppering you with kisses all the way up to your lips as you catch your breath.

“Feeling good?” He whispers, brushing your messy strands of hair out of your face with a soft smile. You nod, returning his smile, glancing at his sheen chest, running your fingers up and down it.

Your gaze then drifts down to the bulge in his briefs, begging for attention to which you trail further down, palming him with light pressure.

Nick’s head falls into the pillow beside you, a low moan escaping his lips at the friction his cock was aching for.

“Fuck— baby, don’t,” He babbles, gasping as you reach into his briefs and release his shaft from the tight confines, pumping him slowly.

You feel the heat in your belly flare up again at his desperate sounds of relief, and begin to tap the tip of his cock against your clit, teasing the both of you.

Nick crashes his lips to yours in a needy haze, both gasping as you line him up with your entrance and start inching forward so slowly it’s practically torture.

You’re so slick with arousal, there’s minimal resistance to his intrusion as you feel your muscles stretching to accommodate around him. You both let out a euphoric moan when he fills you completely, stilling himself and relishing in the feeling of your warm, wet walls.

“God—” He strains against your mouth, “I don’t think I'll ever get over how amazing you feel, angel.”

You moan softly at his words, rutting your hips against his, “please...” you beg, voice trembling.

He smiles against your lips giving you a quick peck, “please what, baby—hm? Tell me what you need.”

You whine in frustration, rocking your hips up once again, to which he takes as an opportunity to sneak his arm under the small of your back and pin you up against his chest. “What do you need, love?”

Before you could form a coherent sentence, he thrusts his hips forward once, the slap of your skin on his echoing in your bedroom which pulls a sharp gasp from your lips.

Then again, and again, and again.

“That what you need, sweetheart?” He pants, starting a pace that has you a mess of strained moans, matching the rhythm of his hips. “Need me to fuck into you like this huh?”

You can't help when your hands tangle in his hair, pulling on it as you cry out when his hips pull back and slams into you with such force, it makes your entire body jolt.

His pace quickens as he rests his forehead against your own, the small actions of you tugging at his hair seeming to enrage him more.

The sounds that echoed in the softly sunlit bedroom were the wet slaps of your skin colliding and a string of profanities and pants coming from the both of you, your walls clenching tightly around him as the tip of his cock hit your sweet spot over and over again with each thrust, sending you into a spiral.

You could feel the knot in your lower tummy starting to get tighter and tighter, your muscles flexing around him as you feel yourself quivering and he can certainly feel it too. His head drops down next to yours letting out low groans, never stopping his ruthless thrusts and determination setting.

“That’s it baby, one more, please.” He whines in your ear, kissing your neck and fingers landing on your bundle of nerves to spur you on alongside his sharp thrusts.

“Fuck— Nick, I’m gonna cum,” You warn, feeling yourself start to clench around his cock, to which he keeps his relentless pace to finally push you over the edge.

You let out one last strangled moan as the knot inside of you snaps, digging your nails into his back, your head thrown back as your entire body convulses.

He buried his head into your neck, slamming into you so feverishly to drive you deeper into ecstasy and once you come down is when his thrusts start to become sloppy and moans louder.

He suddenly jolts forward, sobbing out moans through his teeth, feeling his warmth paint your walls white. He collapses on top of you, both breathing so heavily as the aftershocks of your orgasms rolling out of you.

Neither of you could move, relinquishing in each other’s company and trying to recover from the sensations you both just experienced.

After a while of sweet silence and whispering sweet nothings and praises to you, he rolls onto his side, bringing you closer to him.

He plants a soft kiss to the side of your head, drawing patterns on your arm with his fingers.

“I should probably call off now,” You suddenly say to which he responds with a snort.

He reaches down to level himself with your plump and swollen lips, stealing a kiss. “Yeah, you’re gonna be pretty busy the rest of this afternoon, angel.”

© aerialmirrorss

[sharieb]

Fragments of Her Light 1: A Cup Beyond the Fog

Synopsis: In the aftermath of a soul-shattering loss, he can no longer dream of her, only remember. Haunted by grief and consumed by obsession, he throws himself into a desperate search across rifts, ruins, and cosmic impossibilities to find the one he lost to the Overseer. With each dead end, his sanity frays, yet he refuses to stop. But just as all hope begins to feel hollow, a strange café begins to surface in whispers, its name echoing something once sacred. Drawn in without understanding why, he unknowingly takes the first true step toward her, a step that will change everything.

Pairing: LADS x Non-MC! reader

Genre: Angst, hurt/comfort Content warning: Angst, mention of implied death, obsession, cosmic/divine interference

Music for the chapter: On the Nature of Daylight by Max Richter

Word count: + 1.1K Writer's notes: Hello, my lovelies. I'm so sorry for the delay. Many things have been going on all day today that I didn't get to post this as soon as I promised 🙇🏾‍♀️. For new readers who just stumbled upon this fic first, I would highly recommend that you read my Held in the Hollowed Fragments series first and then come back and read this sequel. But here it is. What you all been waiting for. I hope you all enjoy the first chapter of Fragments of Her Light.

Next

He hadn’t slept in days. Not properly, not since the last time he held her body in the fog, still and cold in his arms. The scent of her still lingered in his chest, the memory of her warmth burned into his hands, and the silence she left behind had carved itself into the marrow of his bones.

He, who had once held her gaze and carried a piece of her soul, were unraveling in their own ways. Grief seeped into his days, etched into every hour, until the ache of her absence became indistinguishable from breath.

He searched.

But no dream had come since. Only fragments. Static. A chasm where her soul once tethered his to the other side. He keeps searching.

He had redirected nearly half of Skyhaven’s surveillance satellites to monitor dimensional rift activity. He analyzed cross-dimensional energy pulses, tracing the faintest disruptions in gravity wells and cosmic distortions for any sign of where she might have been taken. The data was inconsistent, barely coherent, but he refused to stop. He combed through thousands of archived dream recordings, fed them into predictive AIs, and layered every possible reading onto the orbital patterns around known and unknown rifts. Nothing concrete emerged.

He burned through every coded evolutionary theorem on soul resonance, refusing sleep even as his body shut down around him. He had taken over the quietest wing of Akso Hospital’s upper labs, surrounding himself with data filters, spiritual scanning drones, and discarded prototypes of resonance amplifiers. He mapped forgotten metaphysical equations into evolving spirals, trying to replicate the way her presence had once affected his vitals. It was madness disguised as science.

He tirelessly roamed the ocean’s deepest trenches and silenced ruins, scouring coral-encrusted temples and forgotten sanctuaries for any ancient relics or soul-bound artefacts that might guide him to her. When the currents quieted and the ruins offered nothing, he would surface and paint. Again and again. Sketches lined his walls: portraits of her in different lights, moods, and fragments of memory. He refused to forget her face.

He salvaged rusted circuits and shattered stabilizers from the broken remains of his old spaceship tech. He began rebuilding by hand. He reignited dormant starfield scanners, rewired faulty dream-broadcast modules, and manually recalibrated prototype signal receivers to tune into frequencies that defied regulation. Night after night, he tested each array against the backdrop of space.

He stopped being strategic. He was desperate now. Silent, sharp, volatile. He hunted down every lead with reckless determination, pulling favours, calling in old debts, and bartering both legally and illegally for anything that might help him locate her across the universe. Every black market relic or discarded wormhole theory was another shot in the dark he refused to ignore. He didn’t care about danger or cost; only the results. And if tearing through the underworld of space-time gave him one inch closer to her, he’d keep going until the universe bled.

She was gone. But not erased.

Taken by no other than:

The Supreme Cosmic Overseer.

Unlike Astra, the Overseer did not play games. They were not a trickster or a gambler of souls. They were something far older. A sovereign of balance and cosmic order. They had governed the rise and fall of galaxies without cruelty, but with unwavering precision. They did not toy with fate. They enforced it.

And when they took her, it wasn’t with malice. It was with purpose.

That was what made it worse.

So he continued to search blindly. Untethered. Grasping only at echoes. And with each dead end, each echo that dissolved into silence, each path that led nowhere, he became more and more frustrated and desperate. The calm resolve that once guided him gave way to a gnawing obsession; his thoughts looped endlessly around her, every moment without a lead like static screaming through his skull. His temper shortened. His sleep vanished. He snapped at those who tried to help, rejected rest like it was betrayal, and chased after even the faintest whispers of her with feral desperation. He couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t. Not until something, anything, led him back to her.

Then the rumor came.

It started small.

A passing comment. “There’s this weird new café downtown. No one saw it being built, but it’s... there. Like it always existed.”

Destiny Café

It had become something of a phenomenon.

At first, it appeared quietly, just another quaint little shop tucked between two buildings in a side street no one remembered existing before. But now? Everyone was talking about it. Review boards were flooded with glowing praise. Influencers posted aesthetic shots of shimmering drinks that changed color in different light. Every drink tasted exactly the way you needed. Every dish warmed something beyond the stomach. There was something timeless in its charm.

It wasn’t just the ambience, the low lighting, the scent of cinnamon and something sweeter, but the sense of comfort that settled deep in your bones the moment you stepped inside. The café made you feel... remembered. Known.

Most thought it was just a cozy refuge.

But it got under their skin. Friends started suggesting it, innocently, offhandedly, as if the universe was nudging him toward something he couldn't see yet.

Thomas had begged him to go.

"Sir, you haven’t been out of the studio in days. You’re twitching over paint thinner fumes. Go. Drink a tea. Find your soul or whatever."

His colleagues at the hospital brought it up during a rare lunch break.

"They’ve got a lavender honey espresso that’s been driving the nurses wild. It even helped Dr. Greyson sleep through a full night for once. You should try it."

He received three independent recommendations in one day. From his lieutenant. From Gideon. And, surprisingly, from one of his AI units, which had spontaneously updated its destination preferences to mark the café as a: ‘Mental Recovery Priority Site.’

He heard it from the twins.

"Boss, I swear if you don’t get out of this bunker for an hour, we’re staging a rebellion. People keep saying that this place is magic. You like creepy things. Go blend into the velvet wallpaper or something."

His field agent group chat wouldn’t shut up about it. One of them sent a picture of a menu item that simply read: For the Forgotten One A dessert that shimmered between shapes, never looking the same twice.

He unknowingly had the same thought as he stared at the café’s name, echoing back from messages, overheard conversations, and the subtle pull that had drawn him here:

Why that name?

Why now?

And why did it sound so much like her?

When he finally stood outside the doorway, alone, unaware of the others, he barely thought about it. To him, it was just an ordinary café, tucked away like hundreds of others, a small curiosity on a grey day.

He didn’t question the name this time. Or the timing. Or the warmth that radiated from the door as his hand hovered over the handle. Not yet.

He didn’t know this would be the first real step.

The first solid, undeniable step back to her.

[blaysreid]

BURNING EVIDENCE - "PATTERN RECOGNITION

pairing = season3!spencer + trainee!reader

summary = reader is a new profiler in training, spencer has recently gotten over his drug addiction and finds it hard to communicate and speak his mind like he used to. His struggle becomes even more difficult when he finds out something he wasn't supposed to.

content warning = details of case, nothing too deep. In further chapters there'll be mentions of Spencer's drug addiction as this would be around season end of 2 to early 3.

a/n = if you're enjoying please check out my other works I'm super new and I'd appreciate a lot :)

previous next

Spencer doesn’t sleep that night.

Not for lack of trying. Cause he lies down at some point, somewhere between three and four a.m. staring at the textured motel ceiling, listening to the low whir of the vent kick on and off. But his mind stays moving. Quiet, clinical. Looping through evidence.

Three victims. Three weeks. Three faces covered in blood and fabric.

The ritual is getting sloppier.

By sunrise, he’s back in the conference room they’ve taken over. Coffee in one hand, crime scene photos spread across the cheap table like playing cards. There’s a stain near victim number two’s corner. He avoids looking at it.

Morgan walks in, says something about the team reconvening after breakfast. Spencer nods, distracted by the case.

It’s truthfully the left-handed dominance that still bothers him.

Something about it doesn’t fit.

Not just the bruising she pointed out, though that had been an interesting catch. He would’ve noticed eventually too, of course. Probably. But the way she phrased it, almost casually, stuck with him. As if she hadn’t needed to prove she was right. Just needed to say it.

He taps a pen against his notepad. He still isn’t sure if he finds that useful or irritating.

The file for victim three lies open in front of him. The facial covering had been a ripped t-shirt. Torn from the victim’s own clothing, but tied deliberately. Almost ritualistic, but not quite consistent enough.

Spencer squints, leans in.

There’s a photo, barely in frame of the knot. He zooms in on the digital copy. It’s backwards. Not left-handed. Just… mirrored.

He frowns. Grabs the file for victim one.

Same knot. Same reverse twist.

He flips open the second.

There it is again.

Spencer’s spine straightens a little. This isn’t dominance. This is mimicry. Copycat behavior. Maybe even staged.

He pulls out his notebook and starts scribbling notes, connecting the patterns. There’s a strange consistency in the inconsistency.

And then, as he’s scanning the rest of the details and photos, ligature marks, entry points. Until he looks up, around the room, eyes landing on the board. He notices another handwriting in the margins of the evidence board across the room. Slanted. Small.

An observation about the alley angles. Something about routine garbage pickup disrupting ritual placement.

He pauses.

He knows that’s not Hotch’s handwriting. Not JJ’s. Not his. He has his team members handwriting memorised not by want, but it's simply a piece of information he could never forget.

He glances toward the other side of the room.

She’s sitting alone with a stack of interview transcripts, highlighter in one hand, glasses slipping slightly down her nose. She doesn’t notice him looking.

Spencer watches for a second longer than he should.

Then turns back to the board.

And quietly underlines her note.

⸻⸻

The marker squeaks as Spencer crosses out a line on the whiteboard. His handwriting—looped and deliberate—blurs slightly in the flicker of cheap fluorescent lighting.

You lean back in your chair, chewing the inside of your cheek. A pile of case files is spread between you, the kind of paper chaos that only looks productive. You’ve both been working in silence for the last twenty minutes. Not companionable silence. Tired, fraying, stretched-thin silence.

On the board: three names.

Three women.

Three weeks.

Same MO. Same staging. Same strange hesitation in the kill.

Spencer’s pacing now. You watch his reflection blur against the glass partition. He mutters something to himself, then turns sharply. “It doesn’t make sense.” he says.

You glance up. “Which part?”

He gestures vaguely. “The timing. It’s inconsistent. The first victim was found three days after the abduction, the second in under twenty four hours, and the third- This one took almost a week.”

You blink. “Could be escalation. Or cooling off periods. He might not be as compulsive as we think-”

Spencer shakes his head. “No, no. If he were cooling off, the violence wouldn’t increase. That’s- ”

“Not what the data suggests,” you finish for him. Quietly. “I know.”

There’s a pause. Something shifts in the air between you. Like he wasn’t expecting you to track the thought that closely.

You stand. Step closer to the board, eyes flicking between the names, the locations, the pins and string and scribbled behavioral notes.

“I don’t think he wants to kill,” you say slowly. “Not really. I think he feels like he has to. Like there’s something ritualistic about it. Not religious. But psychological.”

Spencer frowns. “That’s not in the victimology.”

“No,” you admit, “but it’s in the positioning. He’s not posing them for shock. He’s covering their faces.”

He studies the board. Then you.

You press on, voice steadier now. “You said it yourself. The last victim had defensive wounds, but the killer still took the time to reposition her arms. Face covered. Hands folded. That’s not chaos. That’s remorse.”

Another beat.

You almost regret saying it. Almost.

But then Spencer’s voice cuts in lower, measured. “You think he knew them.”

It’s not a question.

You nod. “Or thought he did.”

He steps closer to the board. Takes the marker again. Draws a new column. Connections. “If he’s ritualizing, we need to look at his internal narrative. Not just the forensics. What story is he telling himself?”

You exhale, grateful he’s listening now.

“Maybe,” you say, pulling out the crime scene photos, “he thinks he’s protecting them. From something or someone worse.”

“Or from himself.”

You look up. That, that, wasn’t a throwaway line. There’s something in his voice. Not quite personal, but laced with a tension you recognize.

But you don’t comment. You just slide the photos toward him.

For the next twenty minutes, you work in rhythm.

Theory. Counter-theory. Corrections. Realignment.

He builds off your observations without defensiveness. You adjust your ideas based on his insights without pride. It’s the kind of intellectual lockstep that’s rare even in this job.

Until-

You spot it. In the third victim’s file. Handwriting analysis. The way she signed her name on a receipt two days before her death, it’s shaky. Panicked. You flip to the others. Same pattern. Not just victims. A shared link. All three had visited the same local shelter before they died.

“Here,” you say suddenly, breath catching. You tap the file. “This handwriting... It's rushed. Almost like she was afraid someone was watching.”

Spencer’s beside you in seconds. Eyes scanning the page. “You think they knew they were being followed?”

“I think they recognized the person following them.”

His hand stills on the edge of the paper.

“That would change everything.” he says, voice low.

He pulls the board back toward him. Starts writing again. This time, in a new color.

You watch the way his posture changes, tense but focused. There’s a momentum here now, an energy that wasn’t in the room before. Not just about the case. About you.

He steps back, eyes on the board. “This… this could be it. The shelter. That’s the anchor.”

You nod. “The killer’s hunting familiar faces. People who won’t scream until it’s too late.”

Silence stretches for a moment. The whiteboard is full now with lines connecting names, places, motives. You both stand still in front of it. Breathing. Thinking.

And then-

Spencer glances at you. Really looks. For a second longer than he needs to.

And says softly, “That’s… good work.”

You feel the compliment land somewhere deep. Not sugary. Not performative. Just honest.

“Thanks,” you murmur. “You weren’t too bad yourself.”

You start to step back toward your desk but he speaks again. Quiet. Not urgent.

“Stay.”

You turn. He’s not looking at you now, just the board.

“I want to go over this again,” he says. “With you.”

⸻⸻

Rain was falling gently when you and Spencer drove to the shelter's address that was given by Garcia. The world looked muted as pale streetlights casting soft halos through the mist, slick pavement reflecting fractured glimmers like fractured glass. The air smelled of wet earth and something faintly metallic, a quietness wrapping everything like a slow exhale.

You reached for the radio dial, fingers brushing the cold plastic, the faint crackle of static waiting beneath. Just as you were about to twist it, Spencer’s hand shot out, lightly resting over yours.

“Let it be,” he said softly, eyes on the road ahead. His voice was low, tentative, like testing a line in a conversation.

You blinked, surprised. He was usually so lost in thought you’d never expect this small interruption. You let your hand drop back to your lap, the silence settling between you.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke, the patter of rain on the car roof the only sound.

Then, out of nowhere, Spencer’s eyes flicked to you. “Did you always want to be in this line of work?” The question wasn’t direct, not intrusive, but carefully measured, an invitation wrapped in casual curiosity.

You considered it, watching raindrops race down the windshield. “No,” you finally said, voice low, almost reflective. “Not really. But when it comes down to it, I guess I always wanted to make sense of the things people try to hide.”

Spencer nodded slowly, like the answer fit some unseen puzzle piece he hadn’t quite grasped before.

The silence grew again, but this time it felt less like a wall and more like a shared space.

Inside the shelter, the air smelled faintly of bleach and old wood. The woman behind the desk was nervy, glancing over her shoulder as if expecting something or someone. Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of a scarf wrapped tight around her neck.

You stepped forward first, voice calm and steady, the kind that seemed to warm the room just enough to make the woman breathe easier.

“We’re here to understand, to help. Anything you can tell us about the victims, about that man who volunteered here, anything could be important,” you said gently.

Her eyes met yours. Something shifted, the tension easing.

“He… he was quiet. Kept to himself mostly,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “But all three of them knew him. They trusted him. I don’t understand why he’d just disappear.”

You exchanged a glance with Spencer. Then she said the name, the one that clicked.

Spencer’s eyes sharpened. No longer the distant, distracted gaze, but focused, alert. The final piece falling into place.

“He wasn’t hunting strangers,” he murmured under his breath, almost to himself. “He was saying goodbye.”

The rain had slowed to a drizzle as you and Spencer stepped out of the shelter, the faint sound of water dripping from eaves punctuating the quiet night.

You pulled your coat tighter around yourself and started walking toward the car without saying much.

Spencer fell into step beside you, his gaze flickering down at the slick pavement. After a moment, you heard him say, low and careful, “You were right about the ritual.”

You glanced at him, eyebrows raised, feeling the weight behind those words.

“And you were right about the remorse,” you replied softly.

Neither of you said anything after that. The rain continued its steady fall, washing over you both. There was no umbrella between you. Just the shared space of rain, the cold dampness pressing in.

You walked side by side, close enough that your shoulders almost touched. It was not a touch. Not a look. Just presence. A quiet understanding passing between you like an unspoken acknowledgment that, despite all the chaos, you were in this together.

Reaching the car, you slid in without glancing back.

Spencer started the engine and pulled out slowly, the windshield wipers slicing through the mist.

Before you could get comfortable, his voice broke the silence again, quieter this time.

“You don’t talk much about yourself.”

You smirked, the edge of tiredness in your chest easing a little.

“Neither do you.”

For a brief moment, something warm flickered in his eyes, almost like a crack in the wall he’d built around himself.

Then he looked forward, focused once more on the road ahead.

A/N = heh did u guys notice the subtle hint at reader...

[miirily]

Everything But Ordinary

Pairing — Suguru Geto x f!reader

Synopsis — Suguru has always watched people from a distance, seeking control in quiet observation. But when it comes to you, he finds that you somehow disrupt his carefully ordered world.

Content — college!au, Suguru has the biggest crush, denial is a river in Egypt, getting together, fluff, slight smut.

Word count — 4.5k

Suguru Geto has always liked watching people.

His earliest memories reach back to kindergarten, where he’d sit on the swing set, feet dragging lazy lines in the sand, or sometimes perched at the top of the slide if it wasn’t already claimed. While the other children screamed with delight, fought over crayons, or burst into tears over toppled blocks, Suguru simply watched. He wasn’t lonely. He wasn’t shy. He just liked the way people moved through the world when they thought no one was paying attention.

There was a certain rhythm to it all. Predictable, even poetic.

Watching has always given him a sense of understanding. Of leverage. Control.

And it has never really gone away.

All through elementary school, then middle school, he remains the quiet observer. Never a wallflower, but never quite the centre of attention either. He floats just outside the limelight, close enough to participate, far enough to see clearly. His classmates never notice the way he tracks their patterns, how Yu always scratches his ear when he lies, or how Mahito only laughs when someone else has already started. It isn’t nosiness. It isn’t perverse curiosity. It’s analysis. Behavioural study, if he wants to make it sound impressive.

Satoru, of course, thinks it’s weird.

“You’re like some creepy old Psychology dude,” his best friend says, sprawled across Suguru’s bed with a lollipop sticking out the side of his mouth. “Sitting in the corner like hmm yes, watch the humans in their natural habitat.”

Suguru simply raises a brow, folding another page of his book.

“I learn more watching than you do talking over everyone.”

“Yeah, but I have fun while doing it.”

It’s true. Satoru is the fun. He barrels into rooms like a living sun flare, loud, luminous and impossible to ignore. And Suguru? He’s the gravity that keeps things from spinning too far out of orbit. Satoru lives at the centre of every moment; Suguru lingers on the edge, collecting details like sand slipping into the creases of his palms.

It isn’t that he doesn’t want to be part of it all.

He just likes knowing when to lean in and when to step back.

By his first year at college, Suguru would personally claim (without arrogance, just quiet certainty) that he’s become quite good at reading people.

It’s not a supernatural skill, not a sixth sense, but a culmination of years spent on the periphery, watching with keen eyes and sharper instincts. He can tell when someone’s lying, maybe not the words themselves, but the way their shoulders twitch half a second too late, or how their smile curves too far to the left, like it’s been practised. He can pick apart embellishments mid-sentence, the little hesitations between syllables, the way people tiptoe over truth like it's ice too thin to hold.

He doesn’t point it out. Not often. He files it away, categorises it, studies it like patterns in a deck of cards.

That’s why Psychology makes sense. Predictable, he knows. Satoru had grinned the moment he saw his application and said, “Knew you’d pick the major that lets you legally mind-read people.”

He hadn’t denied it.

And by the middle of his first semester, between personality theory lectures and endless papers on behavioural models, he comes to a quiet, frustrating realisation:

He likes watching you the most.

Not out of pure curiosity, and definitely not because he’s hopelessly smitten—not that he’s entirely blind either. You’re undeniably appealing. There’s a softness in your smile and a kind of unintentional magnetism in the way you carry yourself. You’re warm in a way that doesn’t announce itself. You don’t pull attention, you invite it. Suguru sees how people gravitate to you like moths to a flame, how you speak with that calm, unfussy confidence that makes others feel heard.

But that’s not what’s bothering him.

What bothers him is that he can’t read you.

Not easily, anyway.

You laugh at the right moments, your tone shifts exactly how it should depending on the context, your facial expressions are never exaggerated nor muted. You are, technically, perfectly normal. And that’s what drives him up the wall.

Because perfect normalcy is never real. Not truly.

People slip. They break character. Their real selves bleed through in the details. But you? You never show more than what you choose to. And Suguru suspects that you do it deliberately. Not maliciously, not even defensively. It’s just how you are. Carefully managed. Thoughtful. Intact.

Which means, while he’s deciphered the way his professor’s voice always gets sharp when he’s lying about grading papers, and how the guy three seats over adjusts his sleeves every time he’s nervous before speaking in class, he still can’t figure out why your eyes get glassy during lectures about childhood development. Or why your laugh tightens just a fraction too much when someone makes a joke about abandonment. Or why, when you think no one’s watching, you stare at your own hands like you’re trying to remember how they’re supposed to move.

Suguru doesn’t like not knowing.

And now he finds himself watching you, day after day, not from a place of judgment or infatuation, but with the same intensity he once reserved for puzzles he couldn’t quite solve. You’ve become his unsolvable equation.

And something about that is dangerously intriguing.

Suguru catches himself.

Not in the obvious way, not with some jolt of horror, not with heat flooding to his ears or anything embarrassingly dramatic. But it’s a quiet, sharp sting of recognition, the kind that creeps in just after the fact, when the moment’s already passed and it’s too late to pretend otherwise.

Because watching you was supposed to be clinical. Detached. An exercise in observation, like all the others before you. Just another case of controlled curiosity, his mind churning through cause and effect, stimulus and response, peeling back layers with surgical precision.

But now?

Now he realises he doesn’t just watch you. He looks out for you.

He notices the shift when your name appears on the class roster but your seat remains empty, and his gaze instinctively sweeps the lecture hall twice, first fast, then slower, methodically, just to make sure. When you finally show up, two minutes before the start of class, out of breath and with that pink flush blooming across your cheeks, your relief soft and radiant when you realise the professor isn’t there yet, Suguru catches his eyes lingering too long on the curve of your neck, on the way your shoulders fall from their tension.

It happens again. And again.

He tells himself it’s just pattern recognition. You're often late. That’s part of the profile.

Then he starts sitting next to you. Not always. Not enough to be obvious. But enough that it becomes habit, enough that he starts timing his arrival with yours, enough that he offers you one of his spare pens, blue ink, fine tip, when you pat your pockets with a mild curse and a sheepish smile.

And he notices your smile. That’s new.

He starts holding doors open for you without thinking. Starts remembering the kind of drink you like from the vending machine. Starts listening more attentively when you speak during discussion, even when what you’re saying doesn’t quite add up to any breakthrough insight, just so he can hear the cadence of your voice, measure it against the way you look when you say it.

It’s all still normal. Perfectly normal. He tells himself this often.

He’s just trying to understand you. You’re an outlier. A carefully balanced contradiction of warmth and restraint. Of light and opacity.

He wants to solve the puzzle that is you.

That’s all.

Right?

Right.

>>><<<

It doesn’t happen all at once. Suguru doesn’t wake up one morning with some grand epiphany, a bolt of lightning that shocks the truth into his bones. It happens slowly, the way snow melts in the first warmth of spring; imperceptible at first, until everything’s quietly wet beneath your feet.

He begins to understand that he no longer watches you just to decipher you. It's not a puzzle he’s trying to solve anymore. Not really. It's you he wants. Not your patterns or your logic, but your thoughts, your real laugh, the ones you bite back behind a hand when something truly amuses you. He wants to know what makes your eyes dull some days and glow on others. He wants to know your favourite music, if you sing in the shower, if you sleep with socks on or off. Mundane, gentle things.

He’s not an idiot when it comes to his own feelings. Not really. He’s just careful with them. Has always kept them wrapped in observation, tucked into silence like pressed flowers in a book no one’s meant to open. But now, with you, he’s stopped making excuses for seeing you, for seeking you.

You’re kind, in that quiet way that isn’t about performance but presence. You’re smart, always offering perspectives in class that he doesn’t expect, even when they’re wrong. And you’re lovely. Not just physically, though he’s not blind to the way your eyes crinkle when you smile or the way your fingers move when you’re animated in conversation.

So when you casually drop an invitation to some frat party, one Suguru would never have attended otherwise, he says yes.

It’s the end of a long study session, your small group spilling out of the library into the muggy embrace of a summer night. The campus is dim and drowsy, lights humming, the sky still glowing faintly purple behind the trees. You’re laughing with one of the girls from class when you glance back over your shoulder and say, “Hey, you guys should come by Sukuna’s place Friday night. It’s nothing fancy. Drinks, music, people pretending they know how to dance.”

You don’t look at Suguru when you say it. Not directly. You look just past him, like you’re afraid of meaning too much.

You’re wearing that yellow dress again. The short one that cinches at the waist and clings to your hips like it was made to. Suguru isn’t watching the fabric move with your steps. Not really.

But he is watching you.

“I’ll come,” he says, almost before he thinks it through.

Your eyes lift to his, surprised. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Later, at the diner, the one with the greasy fries and sticky counters that he and Satoru always end up at after late lectures, they’re sharing a plate of fries when Satoru kicks at Suguru’s ankle under the table. He’s wearing sunglasses even though it’s well past midnight, slurping a strawberry milkshake through a red straw like some caricature of a delinquent movie star.

“You,” Satoru says, pointing the straw at him like an accusation, “are so whipped.”

Suguru doesn’t rise to it. Just reaches for another fry, dipping it slowly into the pool of ketchup and mayonnaise on the side of his plate.

“I’m not whipped,” he says evenly.

Satoru snorts. “You’re going to a frat party. Voluntarily.”

“Observation,” Suguru replies dryly, glancing out the window. “Purely academic.”

“Right,” Satoru grins, leaning back with that smug, knowing tilt of his head. “Make sure you take notes. On how her dress fits.”

Suguru doesn’t reply. He doesn’t have to. Because this isn’t about the dress. It’s about you and he’s done pretending otherwise.

And that’s how he finds himself at said frat party only days later.

The moment he steps through the front door with Satoru, who insisted on tagging along “for emotional support”, the noise hits him like a wave: bass thudding through the floorboards, too many voices talking over each other, someone screech-laughing from the second floor. There’s a faint smell of beer, sweat, weed, and perfume that clings to the air like humidity. The house itself looks like it's on the brink of collapse from sheer energy with students dancing half-heartedly in the centre of the living room, red cups abandoned on windowsills and side tables, and a guy on the sofa pulling hard on a bong like it's the only thing anchoring him to this plane of existence.

Suguru’s gaze sweeps the room once, slow, measured, instinctive. It’s not paranoia. It’s just habit. Observation comes naturally. It always has.

He catalogues everything. The couple making out against the back of the staircase, the ceiling fan dangerously wobbling above the dance floor, the half-empty punch bowl in the corner. His eyes flick to the back veranda doors, open to let in the cooler night air, a few students spilling outside to smoke or just breathe.

Satoru elbows him with a smirk, all white hair and confidence in a black button-up he hasn’t bothered to button fully. “I see your antenna’s already up,” he shouts over the music. “You’re like a hawk. So romantic.”

Suguru doesn’t dignify that with a response. He’s about to suggest they find a corner less likely to implode when Satoru claps his shoulder and disappears toward the kitchen, already calling someone’s name and weaving through the crowd like it’s his kingdom.

That’s when he sees you.

You’re standing near the open veranda doors, haloed by the golden glow spilling in from the hallway and the cooler light of the garden beyond. The breeze lifts a strand of your hair just so, your red cup dangling loosely in your hand. And you’re wearing black.

Sinfully black.

The dress hugs your frame in a way that’s entirely unfair, short but not scandalous, tasteful but toeing the line of dangerous. Suguru’s breath catches, and he hates himself just a little for it. For the way his pulse responds. For how hard it is to drag his eyes away.

But more than the dress, it’s the look on your face that holds him in place.

You’re biting your lip softly, not from nerves, but in that absentminded way that says your thoughts are elsewhere. The girl next to you, some chatty friend he vaguely recognises from your study group, is talking a mile a minute, gesturing with her own red cup like she’s explaining nuclear fusion.

But you? You’re not really there.

Your gaze flits across the crowd every few seconds, like you’re scanning the room without meaning to, your eyes searching for something or someone. Suguru watches the way your fingers twitch at your side, your posture too upright to be relaxed.

And then your eyes land on him.

For a moment, everything else dims. The lights, the noise, the chaos. Like someone’s turned the volume down just for a second.

Your face brightens, not dramatically, not in a way that screams movie-scene, but with a softness that he feels in his chest, a smile slowly blooming across your lips like you’re actually relieved to see him. You lift your hand, a casual wave, small and full of intention.

Suguru’s lips quirk into a rare, real smile.

He lifts his fingers in return, barely a wave, more of an acknowledgement, but he knows you see it. He knows you feel it. And in that moment, watching your smile, your eyes holding his across the sea of strangers and sound, Suguru thinks that maybe Satoru’s right.

Maybe he is a little whipped.

And he continues to look at you, of course he does. He always does.

But this time, it’s different. This time, you are watching him too.

From across the room, he sees the moment you gently excuse yourself from your overly talkative friend, nodding along to her final words before slipping away. You hold your red cup with both hands now, the hem of that black dress grazing mid-thigh with every step you take. Suguru's brows lift ever so slightly in surprise when he realises—you’re coming to him.

You’re weaving through the throng like you belong there, but your eyes never leave his. Not even once. It should be suffocating, maybe, the attention. But it isn’t. It feels like gravity. Like inevitability.

And then you’re there, right in front of him, the loud buzz of the party suddenly background noise to the way you tilt your head up at him with a smile that threatens to undo every thread of control he’s stitched around himself.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show,” you say, voice light but somehow weighted, your eyes wide beneath the fan of your lashes.

Your cheeks are flushed. From the drink, maybe. From the heat of the room. Or maybe from something else entirely. Suguru isn’t sure. He doesn’t dare ask.

He shrugs, his own smile slow, deliberate. “You made the offer too tempting to decline.”

That earns him a laugh; your laugh, soft and easy and utterly beautiful, and he swears it echoes inside him louder than the bass that vibrates through the walls.

It starts there.

He tells himself it’ll just be for a moment. A quick chat, a drink, maybe a laugh. But one moment folds into the next like the warm press of dusk into night. Wherever you move, he follows, or maybe it’s the other way around, and he’s not sure when that shift happened.

You lead him to the kitchen at one point, letting him steal a sip of whatever too-sweet concoction you’re drinking from your cup. He grimaces and you laugh again, nudging him with your shoulder. He finds it hard to not smile in response.

Later, you both end up outside to escape the heat, the noise, the push of bodies inside the frat house. The garden is strung with fairy lights and half-hearted tiki torches someone thought were a good idea, but you both pass them for the darker part of the yard where a pair of mismatched sun loungers sit, abandoned.

You collapse into one with a sigh, letting your legs stretch out, toes pointed, hair fanned over the back. Suguru takes the seat next to you, more careful, more composed, but his posture softens the moment he hears you hum contentedly.

“I didn’t think you’d be the type to stick around,” you say after a while, turning your head to glance at him.

“Neither did I,” he murmurs.

There’s silence after that. Not the awkward kind, but the kind that fills with night sounds and shared stillness. Somewhere, someone inside starts a new song and someone else cheers, but it all feels very far away.

Suguru doesn’t even remember where Satoru is, doesn’t care to look. Doesn’t sweep the crowd for details or observe the people stumbling past the open porch.

Not when you’re here. Not when you’re next to him, shoulders brushing, laughter still lingering in the air like perfume.

For the first time in a long time, he isn’t watching the world.

He’s just watching you.

>>><<<

Suguru leaves well past midnight.

The party has thinned by then. Only the die-hards remain, swaying drunkenly on the makeshift dance floor, and someone’s passed out face-down on the kitchen counter. Satoru gives him a two-fingered salute and a lopsided smirk from across the porch as he leaves with someone Suguru doesn’t recognise, mouthing “whipped” before disappearing into the dark.

But Suguru barely registers it.

He’s staring at the screen of his phone, thumb hovering over your contact. It’s there, your name, glowing faintly in his palm like it’s something delicate, sacred. He must have checked it five times since you typed it in with a smirk and a quiet, “Don’t be a stranger.”

He stands on the sidewalk outside the house for a while, the hush of early morning curling around him, street lights flickering gold overhead. He stares at your name like he used to stare at you in those early weeks when you were still a curiosity, a riddle. Minutes pass. Maybe hours. Maybe it’s still just seconds, but time stretches and bends in his chest until he makes a decision.

The next day, he texts you. Dinner? Just you and me this time.

You reply with a smiley face and an I thought you’d never ask.

From then on, it changes. Or maybe it finally begins.

Because Suguru has always liked watching people. It's what he's best at, what comes naturally, without effort. Reading the flicker of emotion across a stranger’s face, noting the subtle shift in someone’s posture when they lie, when they’re unsure, when they’re pretending.

But watching you? That’s different.

He likes how you dress up for him every time you meet, even when you pretend you haven’t. How your fingers smooth down your clothes absentmindedly the moment you spot him. He likes how your eyes soften the second they land on him, like the rest of the world fades in the periphery.

He watches how you bite your lip when you're nervous, like you did on your first official date when he complimented your earrings. He notices how you laugh with your whole body, your shoulders shaking, nose crinkling, joy unfiltered when he tells you stories of Satoru’s absurdities. He watches how you blush and giggle softly when he kisses you, your fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer like you don’t want him to go anywhere.

You’re a puzzle, still. But not the kind he wants to solve and shelve away.

No, this puzzle, you, are one he wants to explore slowly, carefully, curiously. With affection. With intention.

You begin to draw him into your past, piece by piece. Stories about your childhood. About your father who abandoned your family when you were only five years old. About your mother who was broken but still tried to pretend, for you, for your older sister. The things that make you anxious. The things that make you you.

And he lets you into his. The quiet corners. The unspoken wounds. The reason why he’s always watched and never quite let himself feel. You listen like no one ever has.

In time, the line between watcher and watched fades entirely.

Now, when you walk beside him, it’s not about observation. It’s not about reading cues or analysing behaviour. It’s about being present. About feeling. About you.

Suguru comes to the quiet, almost amused conclusion one rainy evening, as you sit curled against him on his dorm bed, reading some highlighted article out loud and laughing at your own mispronunciations, that you are anything but perfectly normal.

And he berates himself, honestly, for ever thinking you were. Because how could he have been so blind?

You’re not ordinary. You’re everything.

He watches you the way one watches a masterpiece, something to admire, something layered and alive. He sees it in the way you treat people: your kindness is not performative, not for praise or reciprocation. It’s deliberate. Intentional. You speak gently to those who need it, but you don’t hesitate to call someone out when they cross a line. Suguru’s seen you stand your ground without raising your voice. You wield your dignity like a quiet weapon, and he finds it breathtaking.

You fit into his world like you’ve always belonged there, laughing loudly at Satoru’s stupid jokes, helping Shoko reorganise her mess of a dorm room while chatting about everything and nothing. And when Suguru meets your friends for the first time, he expects to feel out of place, the way he usually does in unfamiliar crowds. But you keep reaching for him, his hand, his sleeve, the subtle brush of your knee under the table. And he fits. You make sure he does.

But it’s at night, behind closed doors, when he sees the full, unfiltered truth of you.

And he can’t look away.

You unravel so beautifully beneath him.

Your fingers twist in the sheets, your hair spills like silk over the pillow, your breath hitches when he murmurs your name against your throat. He watches your face tilt toward the ceiling, your lashes fluttering as his hips roll into yours, slow and deep. Your skin is warm under his palms, soft and alive, and your body responds to him like it knows him, like it’s always known.

And when you whisper his name, Suguru, half-gasp, half-prayer, he feels like he’s the only one who’s ever truly heard it.

He watches your moans rise and fall like music, your fingers clawing for more, and it’s not just lust that tightens in his chest, it’s reverence. He’s never wanted anything the way he wants you. All of you. Not just your pleasure, not just your body, but your tired silences, your secret fears, your morning yawns and your late-night texts.

He wants to keep watching, keep learning, keep discovering. Because you are the exception. The most intricate, extraordinary thing he’s ever let himself love.

And it’s terrifying. Not in the way he once feared it might be.

Suguru’s not afraid of the feelings, those he’s long since accepted with the calm inevitability of someone walking into a tide that was always going to pull him under. No, the real fear, the real terror, lies in what those feelings have done to him. In what you have done.

Because for as long as he can remember, Suguru has liked to watch. It gave him a sense of detachment. A measure of control. People could be predicted. Studied. They had patterns, impulses, tells. If he could understand them, he could stay one step ahead. Always calm. Always composed. A master of silent leverage.

And now?

Now he’s given all of that up for you.

It terrifies him how easy it’s been. How willingly he’s handed over the control he used to grip with white-knuckled precision. All because of the way you smile at him. Not the polite kind. Not the pretty kind. But the one you reserve only for him, the one that lights up your whole face and makes him feel like he’s somehow suspended between heaven and earth.

It terrifies him when you curl up beside him on the sofa without asking, like it’s second nature now, your legs tangled with his, your head tucked beneath his jaw, one hand slipping beneath his sweater just to feel his skin. You hum when he wraps his arm around you, and Suguru feels it in his ribs like a soft implosion.

But it’s when you take control of him, truly, completely, that he understands just how far he’s fallen.

When you kneel between his legs like you belong there, looking up at him through lowered lashes, your hands slow and sure as they run along his thighs. And he doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t even think of stopping you. He leans back, legs parted, his breath coming shallow as he lets you touch him, guide him, claim him. Every inch of him surrenders. Every sharp, honed instinct to observe, to analyse, to dissect gone in the quiet press of your lips, in the way your voice goes soft when you say his name like it’s something sacred.

He lets you take him apart. Piece by piece.

And maybe that’s the most terrifying thing of all, because after years of watching people like puzzles, like patterns, like equations to be solved and sorted into neat mental files…

You are the one anomaly he never wants to solve. The one person he wants to surprise him. The only variable he doesn’t want to control.

Suguru Geto still likes watching people.

But he knows now, without hesitation, without shame, without fear: He likes watching you the most.

[arepo25]

RANDOM ASTRO TAKES #4

Where is Capricorn in your chart can show where you are the GOAT, that’s an area of your life where with discipline and hard work you can overcome anything, all the doors are open and sky is the limit.

Uranus in Pisces in mutual reception with Neptune in Aquarius can embodies an ideal of creativity, spirituality, or physically. They’re divine muse if artists, skillful players, talented photographers, top models. But also intuitive fast thinkers, innovative healing maker, a good content creator, an influencer with eccentric community, an actor that you trust like no one… Neptune is in fall in Aquarius but it’s one of the less difficult fall, if we retire New Age bullshit and delusion about community in our modern society, that placement is in derivative 12H of its domicile, Pisces is in analogy with 12H, it’s symbolic of all the mysticism of the sky.

Generally, if the planets aren’t in exile/fall, harshly aspected or in difficult houses, mutual reception strengthened the planets implicated, their qualities blend each others to creates something very unique and special, Uranus can rules that type of placement.

Some of the best mutual reception :

Mercury in Cancer and Moon in Gemini (fast mind)

Mars in Capricorn and Saturn in Scorpio (THE achiever)

Venus in Cancer and Moon in Taurus (best sensual partner)

Jupiter in Libra and Venus in Sagittarius (abundance of pleasures)

A news from CIA says that Covid 19 had been leaked from a laboratory, when France, in collaboration with China, inaugurated a p4 laboratory BEFORE COVID in Wuhan specifically for this type of virus, it was very strange, given all this, that the new Moon is in Aquarius conjoined with Mercury and Pluto ruled by Saturn in Pisces, the sign of viruses and bacteria. With the new Moon in the same sign as the U.S. Moon, it really is a potential conspiracy in the making that people are now informed.

Mercury in Aquarius ingresses conjunct Pluto at 1 degrees, new ideas emerges from a hidden place of the mind, transformative conversations can disrupting your daily routine, technology boosted, AI more and more used, dystopian Black mirror shit happens in the real world..It’s a previous of the ingress of Uranus in Gemini trine Pluto.

Crown atmospheric of Sun is 1 million of degrees when the Sun is 5000 degrees Celsius, that’s why entourage of Sun dominant are very hot.

The start of a plutocracy/technocracy happens during a Sun/Pluto conjunction in Aquarius, that falls in the 3H of USA, Canada is menaced, Mexicans and South Americans refugees also.

what sign’s rising hide based on their derivative 8H :

Aries (Scorpio 8H) : the secrets of death

Taurus (Sag 8H) : secrets journeys places

Gemini (Cap 8H) : hidden inner knowledge

Cancer (Aqua 8H) : secrets of human birth

Leo (Pisces 8H) : hidden creativity skills

Virgo (Aries 8H) : secrets of motivation

Libra (Taurus 8H) : secrets of arcane le bateleur

Scorpio (Gemini 8H) : secrets books/secrets jokes

Sagittarius (Cancer 8H) : secrets of abundance

Capricorn (Leo 8H) : secrets of glowing up

Aquarius (Virgo 8H) : secrets of epistemology

Pisces (Libra 8H) : secrets of love

Where earth signs fall in your chart is how you are connected to nature,

1/5/9H : you might construct your identity, pleasures, philosophy of life based on grounded thoughts, your daily routine can be to enjoy the instant present, the little things that the life have to offer

2/6/10H : your relationships to material possessions can be so important, but warning on overconsumption, you’re maybe ethical in your career, values.

3/7/11H : you should connecting with others when you commit to your natural skills, that can be crafts or art, but you’re can really enjoy travel with your entourage in green places.

4/8/12H : survival mode might be in your subconscious patterns, you can knowing what is animal spirit, everything can be a natural law in this world for you.

[gf2bellamy]

part four: manifestation synchronicity

— ★ he didn’t speak it into existence—but he dreamed it, wished it, and somehow, the universe listened

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: nothing!

masterlist - part one ✦ part two ✦ part three

A lot of time had passed.

The dream clung to Spencer like a second skin, refusing to fade, even weeks later.

It clung to him so much that Spencer had started writing down speeches. Whole scenarios, practiced confessions of love—scripts he rehearsed late at night, sometimes whispering them under his breath, sometimes mouthing them silently while brushing his teeth. Each one ended up crumpled and tossed in the trash.

Too much. Too rehearsed. Too… not enough.

The wastebasket beside his desk overflowed with failed declarations, balled-up like the knot in his chest.

This morning, the aftermath of another sleepless night found him stepping into the elevator at 8:17 AM—late by his standards.

Morgan's car already parked in the lot. Hotch's office light already on.

The universe's meticulous order disrupted.

He sighed again as the elevator doors opened and stepped out into the bullpen, mind already racing. He hadn’t even had time to grab coffee. All he could think about was you. The way your voice sounded in the mornings, the way you said his name, the way—

"Spencer!"Your voice cut through the fog like sunlight.

He sat down at his desk just as you emerged from the breakroom, a steaming cup in each hand.

"You're late," you teased, hip-checking his desk as you approached.

Spencer's half-formed greeting died in his throat.

There you stood, dressed in a pink sweater that mirrored the sweater from his dream—same cable-knit pattern, same way it slipped off one shoulder. And the hair clip. The ladybug hair clip from your first day, winking at him like a shared secret.

The coincidence was too precise, too cruel.

"I overslept," he managed, his voice rough with sleep and something far more dangerous.

His gaze traced the curve of your neck where the sweater met skin, the way your fingers drummed against the ceramic mug—his mug, the one you always claimed was "accidentally" filled with his preferred brew.

You leaned further over his desk, close enough that he caught the vanilla-citrus scent of your shampoo.

"Well, lucky for you," you said, sliding the coffee toward him, "I come prepared."

The steam curled between you like the ghost of all his unsaid words.

“Thank you.” Spencer immediately took a sip, the warmth of the coffee on his tongue not even comparing to the warmth that was spreading throughout his entire body at the sight of you.

The conversation wandered—case files, Garcia's latest tech obsession, the questionable quality of precinct coffee—until the observation slipped out unbidden:

"I like your sweater." Spencer finally let the words fall out.

You nudged him lightly with the toe of your shoe, the contact buzzing through his thigh like a live wire. "Thanks, Spence," you said, plucking at the fabric. "Found it buried in my drawer. Haven't worn it in years, but today it just... called to me, you know?"

Spencer's fingers stilled on his desk.

Called to you.

The scarf around his neck—your scarf—suddenly felt heavier, the wool scratching at his skin in a way that had nothing to do with texture and everything to do with the way his pulse rabbited beneath it. He'd gone from treating it like museum glass to needing it like oxygen, as if the fibers had woven themselves into his DNA. He couldn't remember the last time he'd left home without it.

"Yeah," he murmured, watching the morning light catch in your lashes. "I get that."

Your smile lingered like sunlight as you stood, fingers brushing his shoulder—a fleeting touch that burned through the fabric of his dress shirt. 

"Enjoy your coffee," you murmured before weaving through the bullpen toward Garcia's office, your familiar morning ritual. Spencer tracked your movement until you disappeared around the corner, the ghost of your touch still warm on his skin.

The next hour passed in a haze. 

Files blurred together and words lost meaning until the scrape of your chair drew his attention back to earth. When you returned, settling into the desk across from him, the bullpen seemed to brighten by several lumens.

It was only when he shifted a stack of paperwork that he saw it—a glint of silver nestled against his keyboard.

Your ring.

The delicate band with its tiny engraved stars—the one he'd given you last Christmas after you'd admired it in a museum gift shop.

The one you never took off.

His gaze snapped up to find you frantically sifting through files, the crease between your brows deepening with each passing second. "You okay?"

You looked up, distress etching your features. "Spence, I can't find my—"

He lifted the ring between thumb and forefinger.

The words died as you spotted it. "Oh thank God."

He crossed to you in three strides, the metal warm from resting against his paperwork. 

"Must've dropped it when you gave me my mug," he smiled, watching the way your shoulders relaxed.

You extended your hand, palm down, fingers splayed in silent request. The implication wasn't lost on him—the ring finger, outstretched like a question he'd dreamed of answering properly.

Spencer's pulse roared in his ears as he cradled your fingers, the slide of cool metal against your skin far more intimate than it had any right to be. When the band settled at the base of your finger, something primal in his chest purred in satisfaction.

You wiggled it experimentally, then gifted him that small, private smile reserved only for him. 

"You're a savior."

He smiled back. The walk to the break room was automatic, his body moving while his mind reeled. The sweater. The hair clip. The ring. Each coincidence stacked like evidence in a case he could no longer deny—

The universe wasn't just nudging him anymore—it was shoving him toward the inevitable. And Spencer Reid had never been one to ignore empirical evidence.

The day unfolded like a carefully orchestrated symphony of impossibilities.

Lunch with Morgan and Garcia became an exercise in cognitive dissonance—three separate times, you and Spencer spoke the same words simultaneously.

Garcia had squealed into her margarita while Morgan muttered about "spooky genius telepathy."

Then the wishing well.

You'd dragged him to it with that irresistible grin, demanding he make a wish "for fun."

Neither of you knew the other had wished for the same thing—each other—coins glinting as they sank into the water like twin falling stars.

But the photograph was the tipping point.

You'd unearthed it from your desk with a delighted gasp—a candid Garcia had snuck into your drawer months ago, capturing the two of you shoulder-to-shoulder in her apartment. 

There you were, frozen in time: Spencer wearing the sweater from his dream (same cable-knit, just in forest green instead of pink), both of you absorbed in a book with—

"A ladybug," Spencer breathed, tracing the insect perched on the book in the photo. His voice sounded foreign to his own ears.

Your nose scrunched in that way he'd cataloged under Endearing Expressions, Vol. 3. "Cute right? Garcia must've taken this when we—"

But Spencer was already lost in thoughts.

The ring. How he had found it, the moment you thought about it. The way it felt to put it on your finger. The sweater. His gray cable-knit—the mirror image of your pink one from the dream. And the book in your hands? A weathered copy of a classic with a ladybug perched on the cover.

The coincidence was too precise, too loud to ignore.

Now, sprawled on his couch in that very sweater (dug out from the back of his closet with trembling hands), he stared at the ceiling. He traced the edges of the photo absently, his thumb brushing over your smile in the image.

The universe had handed him every clue, every sign, every cosmic nudge imaginable. Somewhere between probability and destiny, Spencer Reid had stumbled into a love story written in constellations.

All that remained was the courage to say it aloud.

[lelengerine]

pairing. nct dream (ot7) x reader

synopsis. waking up with the dreamies!

genre. established relationship, just a lot of cutesy fluff, mentions of food in jaemin’s, lmk if there's anything i missed <3

wc. around 150-200 words per member

notes. this is my first time writing these shorter drabbles so i hope you like them hehe i’d love to know if you guys wanna see more of this >< likes and feedback are highly appreciated!

m.list

→ mark

mark stirs awake, the morning light creeping through the curtains, casting soft shadows across your sleeping form. he feels a tug on the blanket and realizes you’ve taken most of it, leaving him with just a sliver of the warm fabric. a quiet laugh escapes him, though he quickly stifles it. the room feels too still, too peaceful to disrupt. his fingers move gently, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face. you grumble a little, but don’t wake. “always stealing the blanket,” he whispers, voice amused. you murmur something incoherent, your sleepiness tugging a smile from him. he pulls the blanket back, careful not to disturb you, before pressing his forehead to yours. “i’ll let you get away with it this time,” he softly tuts, a quiet promise in his words. you nuzzle closer in contentment, eyes still closed, and whisper back, “just stay like this.” and so he does, letting the silence fill the space between you, content to lose himself in the warmth of your closeness.

→ renjun

the morning is still, the kind of quiet that feels sacred. renjun opens his eyes, immediately finding you beside him, your breath steady and soft. he’s always admired the way you look when you sleep. there’s a serenity in it, as if the whole world has quieted just for you. without thinking, he reaches for his sketchbook, sitting on the edge of the bed, pencil poised—a habit of his that developed ever since the two of you moved in together. each line he draws is delicate, a reflection of how he sees you: peaceful, beautiful, ethereal. you stir slightly, eyes fluttering open, catching him in the act. “drawing me again?” you ask, voice thick with sleep, a gentle tease in your tone. he flushes after being caught, the pencil in his hand freezing mid-stroke. “i couldn’t help it,” he admits quietly. you smile, shifting closer, peeking over his shoulder. “let me see.” he turns the sketch toward you hesitantly, and when you look up at him, there’s nothing but warmth in your eyes. “i love it.”

→ jeno

the first thing jeno feels is the weight of you against him, your head nestled into his chest, breath steady and slow. he smiles, still half-asleep, as his fingers begin tracing slow, lazy patterns along your back. he’s not sure if he’s drawing hearts or stars, only that he wants to keep you close. you shift slightly, waking up, and your eyes meet his, still hazy with sleep. “morning,” you mumble, voice soft like it belongs to this quiet hour before the world stirs. “morning,” he greets back, words rumbling from his chest. you smile, leaning up to press a kiss to his jaw, the touch light, like a secret shared between you. “you’re always awake before i am,” you note with a playful sigh. he grins, his arms tightening around you. “just can’t help it,” he admits softly. “waking up with you feels too good to miss.”

→ haechan

you’re draped across the bed, limbs everywhere, your hair a wild mess against the pillow. haechan wakes to the sight of you, and a grin immediately spreads across his face. mischief bubbles in his chest, and before you know it, his fingers find your sides, tickling you awake. “why do you always take up the whole bed?” he teases, laughter in his voice. you groan, eyes still closed as you bat at his hands, but a laugh slips out despite it all. “haechan, stop,” you whine, still half-asleep, voice muffled against the pillow. the sound of his laughter follows not long after, pulling you into his arms with ease. “i’m awake now, so you have to be too,” he declares with certainty, wrapping himself around your torso as if daring you to escape. you sigh, melting into him despite the protests leaving your mouth. “you’re impossible,” you mutter, but there’s a smile in your voice, one that he catches immediately. “yeah, but you love it,” he replies smugly, his lips pressing a kiss to the top of your head. and in that moment, wrapped up in the mess of limbs and laughter, you know he’s right.

→ jaemin

the smell of something sweet pulls you from the comfort of your slumber, and you realize the space beside you is empty, but warm. you blink against the soft morning light, listening to the faint clatter of dishes barely seeping past the door. quietly, you slip out of bed, padding towards the kitchen of your apartment. jaemin stands there, humming softly as he flips pancakes with a focus that makes you smile. “you’re cooking?” you ask in the midst of rubbing your eyes awake, still groggy, but unable to suppress the fondness in your voice. he turns at the sound of you, a smile spreading across his face as he sets the pan down. “surprise!” he says, moving toward you, his arms immediately wrapping around your waist. you lean into his embrace, the warmth of him grounding you. “you didn’t have to,” you murmur, though you’re already imagining the taste of the breakfast he’s prepared. he pulls back, just enough to meet your eyes. “i wanted to,” he says softly, his fingers brushing your hair back. “i love mornings like this—with you.”

→ chenle

you wake up earlier than usual, passing the time as you scroll through funny videos on your phone, trying not to wake your boyfriend up, but it’s too late—he’s already blinking awake beside you, squinting through the morning light. “what’s so funny this early?” chenle asks, his voice still thick with sleep, but there’s a curious smile playing on his lips. you turn the phone toward him, showing him the random cat video that has you in stitches. he watches, his sleepy expression giving way to a grin, and soon enough, he’s laughing too. “you really start your day with memes?” he teases, shaking his head in disbelief. you nudge his side playfully. “it’s the best way to wake up!” your defense is only met with a sharp laugh from your boyfriend who pulls you closer, arms wrapping around you as he presses his face into the crook of your neck. “you’re ridiculous,” a murmur comes out of him, his voice soft yet a hint of laughter trails behind. “but if it makes you happy, i guess it’s the best way to wake up for me too.”

→ jisung

you wake to the soft sound of steady breathing, and as your eyes flutter open, you realize jisung is already awake, his gaze fixed on you. his arm is loosely draped over your waist, fingers brushing the fabric of your shirt absentmindedly. “morning,” you whisper, still half-asleep, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips. jisung’s cheeks flush slightly, a shy smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “morning,” he replies, his voice quiet, unsure. you briefly stretch and shift around the pillows and comforters, turning to face him fully, and you notice the way his gaze softens as he looks at you. “you could’ve woken me,” you murmur, your hand coming up to trace the curve of his jaw. jisung shakes his head, a soft chuckle escaping him. “i didn’t want to,” he admits. “you looked too peaceful. i… i like waking up like this.” his voice is barely above a whisper now, as if he’s confessing something he’s only just realized. you smile, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his cheek, “i like it too.”

[n1pp]

A Guide to Disconnecting With a Digital Detox Challenge

In our hyper-connected world, smartphones and other devices have become extensions of ourselves. Although convenient, there are times when it’s beneficial to disconnect and go on a digital detox challenge

While the internet has revolutionized the way we live, work, and play, it has also led to an increase in digital dependency, distracting us from paying attention, disrupting our sleep patterns, and affecting our mental health. A digital detox challenge offers a structured way to break free from digital dependency, re-evaluate our relationship with technology, and rediscover the joy of living in the present.

The Pitfalls of Hyper-Connectivity

In the age of digital abundance, hyper-connectivity and the incessant consumption of digital content have become pervasive, shaping behaviors and influencing mental health in profound ways. Although there are many benefits of being connected online, it’s also important to understand the issues and recognize the need for a balanced digital diet.

Hyper-connectivity refers to the state of being constantly connected to devices and the internet, making it virtually impossible to disconnect. While it offers unparalleled access to information and socialization, it also causes many challenges:

Information Overload: Constant exposure to a stream of information can overwhelm the brain, making it difficult to process information effectively and leading to decision fatigue.

Decreased Productivity: The myth of multitasking on digital platforms can actually hamper productivity, as the brain switches between tasks, reducing efficiency and increasing mistakes.

Emotional Exhaustion: The need to be always available and responsive on various communication platforms can lead to burnout and emotional exhaustion.

Overconsumption of Content

The digital world offers an infinite stream of content, from news and entertainment to social media updates. Overconsumption of this content can have several negative impacts

Attention Span: Continuous scrolling and content consumption can reduce the ability to focus on a single task for extended periods, affecting learning and comprehension.

Echo Chambers: Algorithms designed to show users content that aligns with their views can create echo chambers, limiting exposure to diverse perspectives and contributing to social polarization.

Addictive Behaviors: The design of many platforms, aimed at maximizing user engagement, can lead to addictive patterns of behavior, making it difficult for individuals to limit usage.

Influence of Social Media

While social media has transformed the way we connect and share with others, its overuse has been linked to several negative outcomes

Mental Health: Excessive social media use has been associated with increased rates of anxiety, depression, and loneliness, particularly among adolescents and young adults.

Distorted Reality: Social media platforms often portray idealized versions of life, leading to unhealthy comparisons and feelings of inadequacy or jealousy.

Sleep Disruption: The use of social media before bedtime can interfere with sleep quality, due to both the stimulating effects of screen light and the emotional engagement with content.

The Benefits of a Digital Detox

A digital detox involves a period during which a person refrains from using tech devices such as smartphones, computers, and social media platforms. The goal is to reduce stress, focus on social interactions in the physical world, and engage more deeply with the immediate environment.

Mental Health: Constant notifications and the pressure to be always "on" can lead to anxiety and stress. Disconnecting helps in reducing these symptoms, enhancing overall emotional well-being.

Enhanced Focus: Without the constant distractions of digital devices, you can focus better on tasks, leading to improved productivity and efficiency in both personal and professional endeavors.

Better Sleep: Screen time, especially before bed, can interfere with sleep quality. A digital detox can help normalize sleep patterns, leading to more restful and restorative sleep.

Improved Relations: Spending less time on devices allows more time for face-to-face interactions, strengthening relationships with family, friends, and colleagues.

Increased Creativity: Stepping away from digital screens provides the mental space to think more deeply and creatively, fostering new ideas and solutions to problems.

Enhanced Wellness: Reducing screen time can encourage self-care and inspire a more healthy lifestyle, especially decreasing the risks associated with sedentary living.

More Gratitude: Disconnecting from the digital world helps in cultivating a greater appreciation for the little things in life, enhancing mindfulness and gratitude for the present moment.

Higher Self-Esteem: Social media can often lead to comparisons that affect self-esteem negatively. A detox can help in breaking this cycle, improving confidence and happiness.

Reduced Dependency: Taking regular breaks from digital devices helps in reducing dependency, making it easier to enjoy downtime without feeling the need to check in online.

Enhanced Privacy: Stepping back from online spaces can also protect personal privacy by reducing the amount of personal information shared on the internet, decreasing exposure to potential data breaches and privacy invasions.

Plan Your Digital Detox Challenge

SET CLEAR GOALS

Begin by defining what you want to achieve with your digital detox. Is it to reduce stress, improve sleep, or spend more time with loved ones? Having clear goals will help guide your process.

START SMALL

If the idea of completely disconnecting feels overwhelming, start small. Designate certain times of the day as tech-free, such as during meals or an hour before bed.

INFORM YOUR CIRCLE

Let your friends, family, and colleagues know about your digital detox challenge. This helps set expectations and reduces the anxiety of missing out.

REMOVE TEMPTATIONS

Uninstall social media apps or use tools to limit your screen time. The less accessible your devices are, the easier it will be to resist the temptation.

PLAN ALTERNATIVES

Identify activities to fill the time you would typically spend on devices. Whether it's reading a book or hosting a dinner party, find something that enriches you.

During the Digital Detox Challenge

EMBRACE BOREDOM

Boredom sparks creativity and self-reflection. Allow yourself to feel bored without reaching for your phone as an easy escape.

ENGAGE IN MINDFULNESS

Use this time to engage in activities that require your full attention and presence, such as meditation, cooking, or gardening.

CONNECT WITH NATURE

Spending time in nature can have a profound effect on your mental and physical well-being. Take walks, go for hikes, or simply spend time in a local park.

REFLECT AND JOURNAL

Use this period to reflect on your relationship with technology. Consider keeping a journal to document your experiences, thoughts, and feelings.

After the Digital Detox Challenge

EVALUATE YOUR EXPERIENCE

After completing your digital detox, take time to evaluate the experience. What did you learn? What habits do you want to change moving forward?

SET NEW BOUNDARIES

Based on your detox experience, set new boundaries for your digital device use. This might include designated tech-free times or days, limiting social media use, or turning off notifications.

ENHANCE YOUR ROUTINE

Make digital detoxing a part of your daily routine. Regularly unplugging, even if just for a few hours, can help maintain the benefits of your detox.

The challenges posed by hyper-connectivity, overconsumption of content, and excessive social media use highlight the importance of digital detoxes and mindful engagement with technology. By recognizing these issues and taking proactive steps to manage our digital consumption, we can mitigate the negative impacts on our mental health, productivity, and personal relationships.

[babyangelsky]

Okay. I had lunch, dripped barbecue sauce on my shirt, got the barbecue sauce out of my shirt, watered my plants, watered myself, and now I'm finally ready to put some thoughts down.

The thing most largely on my mind, apart from you know...everything?

The implosion had to happen this way.

And it had to happen this way because Sei and Kazuaki had already resolved not to end their relationships.

Complacency is a trap that's very hard to break out of. It almost tricks you into believing that change isn't worth it even if on some level you're aware that it's needed. Except in this case, the change has already happened. They agree to stay as they are so nothing will change and nothing will be destroyed, but it's been changing and that change has gone willfully unacknowledged.

Or it was going unacknowledged, I should say. But it can't anymore because Sei and Kazuaki both broke pattern.

I thought it was odd that Kaori made no mention of how her boyfriend took off in the middle of the night in the pouring rain and didn't come back. Their relationship is very broken but surely that would be a noteworthy occurrence.

Especially given the timing. He takes off moments after she rejected his attempt at intimacy and then just doesn't say anything? Just says she was bored and that's that?

Nope. That is not in fact, that. Kaori didn't say a word only because she never says a word. She exists in her relationship with blinders on. She likes everything about Kazuaki except that he's a man and won't question what that means or why that might be. She's content with the lack of intimacy, knows that Kazuaki isn't, and chooses to live with him asking her for sex instead of saying anything.

She's just as complacent as he is, albeit for different (possibly comphet) reasons, and since she's chosen not to think about it, it's been pretty chill for her.

Until Kazuaki broke pattern.

He didn't go back to his side of the room after her rejection like he always does. He went off-script. He left and didn't come back until the next day and that is a noteworthy occurrence.

So noteworthy, as a matter of fact, that she checked his phone after saying herself that she isn't the type of person to do that. And she didn't just check his phone, she left the house with it!

But not without first smashing the storm glass that Sei gave her on the floor, because in reading those emails, her blinders were torn off. There is no pretending anymore.

For her, or for Fujisawa.

He won't say anything either, but his face more than speaks for him. He knew Sei was lying him before Sei even made it out the door and he was not happy about it. Sei thinks Fujisawa is hiding something from him and I think he's right. What's more, I think that what Fujisawa is hiding is his displeasure and his jealousy.

Because after having seen this episode and the preview for next week's, there is not a doubt in my mind that Fujisawa is jealous. Not because he has romantic feelings for Sei, which I really don't believe he does, but because Sei is breaking pattern.

Everyone in this show is complacent. Everyone. But for Fujisawa in particular, I believe it's less about accepting the way things are and more about needing things to be a certain way. @respectthepetty went more into detail about that here.

And so far, the way he needs things to be IS the way they have been. Nothing has shaken the boat. The towels have all been white, there's been no TV, no parties, no flashy clothing, no one talking to Sei without going through him. Even Sei's attempts at connection and Fujisawa's repeated rejections are part of it because that's also happening the way it's supposed to.

But now the king of non-disruptive design is being disrupted. Sei is going places. He's talking to more people. He left the house in the middle of the night and lied about where he has going and Fujisawa has put himself in a position where he has to pretend to believe him. He has to pretend that nothing is happening.

Except that he can't, because now Kazuaki's phone call has utterly and completely destroyed any hope Fujisawa might've had to be able to bury his head in the sand and carry on as normal.

And he is not going to react well to having his control shaken.

When complacency is this profoundly seated, dragging everything out into the open and being forced to deal with it is the only way for an actual sustainable change to happen. You almost do have to be removed from choice because breaking pattern isn't enough.

You have to break EVERYTHING apart to such a degree and in such a manner that you cannot put it back together in the exact same way it was before.

[nanamis-bigtie]

morning after

↬ nanami kento, higuruma hiromi, kusakabe atsuya x gender neutral reader ↬ masterlist // ao3 version

cw: suggestive themes, implied bottom reader a/n: repost from the old account. divider by saradika

nanami kento

Kento is not used to noise and smells in the kitchen so early in the morning. Such disruption of his routine would bother his mood under other circumstances—but now, with the soft sound of your bare feet at the other side of his apartment, it feels only right. Familiar, he would even say, despite the atmosphere of a special occasion lingering in the air.

When was the last time he made breakfast from scratch, he wonders when the door of his bathroom closes behind you. Normally, he would be still asleep at this hour; his alarm would go off in thirty minutes, he would take a necessarily short and cool shower, check emails in case of an emergency, and then head to the 7/11 on the corner, to eat a humble meal of a pre-made sandwich and a cup of coffee from the machine, maybe an onigiri too, if he felt particularly greedy. Today, he barely slept and rose with a crack of the dawn—yet he felt the most relaxed since what seems to be ages to him. He still had the taste of you lingering on his tongue after the night, and decided to savor it until the flavor of cooking he had to test on the way would eventually wash it away. Scratched marks on his shoulders and back stung when he leaned to check what he had in the fridge. His hips, unlearned of moves he had been using on you since you had devoured the takeaway dinner together, ached as he tiptoed to reach the rice cooker, left dusty on one of the highest shelves. His eyes kept the afterimage of your blissed out face over the selection of vegetables and seasonings he chose for this meal.

When was the last time he was so peaceful?

Kento finishes cutting the fresh cucumber and tsukemono, pours water into mugs with instant miso soup inside, and finally checks on the rice. It's warm and fluffy, just waiting to be put into the bowls he prepared—the cutest he had, with a long-tailed tit pattern. He brought them from Hokkaido and didn't use them even once, until he spotted them today and decided you would love them.

Rice has to wait; he can't let it grow cold like the sheets you two left behind are undeniably growing. First, he checks on the piece of salmon—a luxury that waited for a day when he could cook again—getting ready in the oven, then cracks a few eggs and beats them well with a pinch of salt and pepper. His stomach growls when they hiss on the red-hot pan—and he can't help but wonder if you're as hungry as him. Things you had in your mouth through the night couldn't feed you, as your corny, vulgar jokes suggested. Kento rarely smiles but the memory of them and the startled look you gave him as you worried if you hadn't been too much for him has him grinning for a short moment.

When was the last time he felt strain in the corners of his lips?

The omelet is ready in no time. Kento knows how you like your eggs, but he can't remember how and when he learned about it. He's sipped many details like this from your lips, through the whole year of waiting for the day you crossed the threshold of his bedroom. He was feeding on crumbs for so long... Being full out of the sudden fills his heart with content and anxiety at the same time. He wants to savor this moment, afraid to stomp on the thin shell of happiness too strong, but he knows he's already too addicted to stop. Whatever happens, happens.

And the food can wait only as long. He can't feed you a cold meal.

The hum of the shower ceases shortly after he takes the salmon out of the oven. Kento listens to the commotion in the bathroom while he finishes the last cuts. Bowls are filled with steaming rice, plates and mugs find their right place on the table. He hasn't cleaned the kitchen—but even if he could do it quickly before you join him, he can't bring himself to disturb this disarray. It looks—it feels—so good to have his place messy at least once, at least today, at least for the first hour you spend together after the night of passionate lovemaking.

His hands still remember the shape of your hips, he realizes when you appear at the entrance, fresh yet still sleepy—and smiling bright at the sight of him by the table.

Kento doesn't want to ever forget it.

higuruma hiromi

Out of the first mornings Hiromi experienced, this one is not the most...extraordinary. But he definitely would place it somewhere at the top of the list.

Seated on the edge of the bathtub, head leaned down, he still feels drowsy. The night was deliciously long and so worth the lingering fatigue in his muscles. He hasn't worked that hard in a while—well, physically at least—and he's undeniably going to pay the price with the top soreness of the last decade. He's more than okay with it...as long as you're not going to ask him for the repetition within the next few days. He's crazy for you—but he's not twenty anymore, and his job squeezes much more energy from him than he would have sacrificed, if he had any choice in this matter. 

Speaking of squeezing—he barely managed to find time to bring you home, for dinner and a movie you didn't even start watching, hungry for something else than a story. And he did so only by nipping time off somewhere else—and by paying the carrying charge now, in his bathroom, awaiting the blind judgment of your skill...or the lack of it, to be honest. He has no idea if you've ever done a haircut before.

But you seem at least familiar with it enough to know how to hold and turn the hair clipper around. Hiromi watches you from the corner of his eye: you're right behind him, scrunching your nose as you're studying the shape of the device and options the various buttons provided. Bare-chested, wearing your pajama shorts only, you secure the towel wrapped around your head with the other hand. It's on the verge of falling apart, some of your hair already got out. He feels an urge to get up and help you tuck it where it should stay but just thinking about feeling it pushes blood where he really doesn't want it, if he wants to leave for work on time. He had his share of touch a few hours ago, stroking and playing with your locks as you had your sweet lips wrapped around his cock.

He's ruined the position when trying to take a better look, so you gently nudge him to lean fully again, a brush of your warm palm enough to have hair on his forearms standing. He had your hands all over him for hours, pulling him close, securing him next to you when you both finally collapsed into well-deserved sleep, so he could swear he's learned your touch enough. 

But now...it's different.

You run fingers through the hair at the back of his head, testing the line you want to cut—and Hiromi is melting. He has to clench hands on the edge of the bathtub to stay collected; the last thing he wants is to get scolded and deprived of your digits slowly threading through his locks. You mumble something about being jealous of how thick they are and something about how badly he needs this cut—but all he can think of is how your voice is so raspy after moaning out his name over and over again. He wonders how your mewls would sound with this tone but thoughts evaporate from his head as soon as they've appeared, this time with the steady buzz of the clipper.

So the sound can be ticklish, such a weird sensation...

You're quick and as precise as only you can be at six in the morning, scrunched over his back in a rather tight space. You cut his hair just enough to keep him somewhat tidy for the few days before he can see an actual hair stylist; there's no time for more and Hiromi doesn't want to make it too much of a struggle for you. Even if it was his own request, he immediately regrets it when you're finished with brushing the cut dust off his neck and shoulders. It's such a pity you have to abandon him and rush with your own preparations. If only you had more time...

Right as he's straightening his back, you touch him with both hands, fingertips scratching lightly at the freshly shaved part of his head, right at the point where it meets his neck. Warmth explodes in his chest—and Hiromi lets out a low, needy growl. It's good, so good, oh gods, just touch him more, just do it one more time, he hasn't had anything like this for so long...

Humming, you move towards the longer strands, then down the sides of his face until you're cradling it between your palms. You tilt his head back and pull him close, until he rests it against your exposed, warm belly. Dry sob shakes his whole body and tears prick at the corners of his eyes—but Hiromia can't bring himself to close them or at least to look away. He's begging for your attention like starved and he's not ashamed.

All he wants is for you to never let go of him.

kusakabe atsuya

Holy shit.

Atsuya didn't get a wink of sleep through the whole night—and the fact that he doesn't have anything to do for the day to come doesn't help the case. He always had problems with falling asleep after sex, but he thought the long break since the last time and, well, the overall busy period in his life would crumble this irritating habit by sheer force of exhaustion. He's as good at taking an accurate measure when it comes to love as he is with dozing off, it seems.

You're sprawled by his side, lying face down and on his arm, butt-naked with the exception of the blanket loosely wrapped around your leg and covering half of your ass. You've taken his share of sleep since you collapsed as soon as he rolled to his side and reached for wipes to clean you both, much to his amusement—and horror once he realized he was sentenced to his thoughts alone for the hours to come. Your smell, soft, twangy breathing, and warmth is just helping them race now. Your weight, pressed tight from his wrist to shoulder, keeps him in place too, cutting any attempt of shameful retreat short. It's nothing he wouldn't be able to move, he's carried you around not once and not twice and it meant nothing to his strength, but he dreads to wake you up.

You deserve that rest after taking his pent up tension over and over again. And he really has no idea what to say to sound appropriate.

Good morning? Good job? Did you sleep well? I love you?

Atsuya groans and does another trip around the room with his eyes only. The more light sips through the loosely drawn curtains, the more details he could pick up, and shame already pricks at his cheeks. He couldn't remember the last time he cleaned around properly but even if he had it squeaky clean for the night, the area just screamed: a confirmed bachelor. Well, at least there's no trash lying on the floor or furniture, but he could easily pick up the smell of cigarettes and badly aired room. None of it mattered when you tussled in darkness, sucking sloppy kisses from each other's lips and peeling clothes off your bodies. But once you wake up and take a look around—Nope, he doesn't want to think about it. That's a problem for Atsuya from in-a-few-hours-future.

He rolls head to the other side, ashamed to even look at your sound asleep body, and stares right at his shirt, casually thrown over the bed stand. He doesn't have to look at it to know it definitely has its best days behind it. He could at least wear something presentable when seeing you for that unplanned job, hasn't he learned anything from his past relationships? Maybe he did, but it was so long ago he wasn't sure anymore if his sloppiness was ever addressed. His chain-smoking, however, is a different story.

Holy shit, he really needs to smoke.

Atsuya knows there's a spare cigarette and a small pack of matches hidden in the little pocket of his shirt, this very shirt within his reach. Carefully, he scoots to the side and reaches for it, fingers already brushing the sleeve, just an inch more, just a little...

You mumble his name and shift, sheets rustling around your legs. Atsuya freezes, sure he's finally done it and woke you up, but you just adjust your position, face turned to him, and continue with your softest snores. You're all messy and exhausted, in need of a shower even more than his room is in need of tidying. With amused relief pushing his worries out of his mind, he reaches out and gently strokes your hair.

You repeat his name, with a mewl dangerously close to what you screamed into his ear a few hours ago.

Out of the sudden, the thought of smoking by your side has him disgusted. You're going to wake up to this mess, to crumbled sheets and clothes all over the place and dying plants and papers lying on the floor in piles—and he wants to add smoke right into your eyes? You deserve better than that. You deserve him to be better than that.

Hell, he's been thinking about it for a while anyway. Maybe if he remembers your face from now, so calm and smiling through your dreams, it will be easier for him to finally quit.

[sadnymi]

Mattheo making a girl cum by praising her and its in class just little whispers and she dry humps him so desperately in a slytherin party he calls her bunny

「 ✦ Duel of Desires. ✦ 」

Mattheo riddle x reader

Summary (Request) : Furious at what Mattheo did in class, I set out for revenge. But my carefully crafted plan takes an unforeseen twist

Warning : Dry Humping , public sex ,fingering , dom/sub dynamics , praise kink

Words : 2.8k

A prickling sensation on my thigh interrupted my meticulous Charms notes. Glancing down, I found Matteo's hand, his fingers tracing idle patterns against the soft skin of my thigh .

A playful annoyance bubbled up inside me. Here we were, Professor Flitwick droning on about the Levitation Charm, and Matteo was turning my thigh into his own personal canvas.

"Mattheo," I hissed, swatting his hand away without breaking eye contact with the restricted professor.

He winked at me, a devilish glint in his eyes. "Just admiring your concentration, love. Makes you look positively fierce."

My cheeks flushed, not entirely from his suggestive comment. Professor Flitwick, with his booming voice and magnified eyes, felt like a hawk perpetually circling the classroom.

"Focus, Mattheo," I murmured, trying to reign in my scattered attention. Transfiguration had been a disaster this morning thanks to his constant teasing, and I wasn't about to let Charms suffer the same fate.

"But you're so much more fascinating than Levitation," he countered, his voice barely a whisper. He brushed his hand against my thigh again, this time lingering a beat longer.

Frustration bubbled over. "Mattheo! We have an exam coming up, and I need to actually learn something."

He chuckled, the sound low and warm against my ear. "Relax, love. You're a natural. Besides, who needs a wand when you have me?"

My irritation morphed into something a little more heated. This wasn't the first time Mattheo's playful teasing had crossed the line in class. The thrill of stolen moments was undeniable, but the risk of detention or worse, Professor McGonagall's withering stare, loomed large.

Taking a deep breath, I decided to play his game. Leaning in close, I lowered my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Alright, Romeo," I said, using a nickname reserved for those rare, stolen moments,"but if you distract me any further, your punishment will be far more… delightful than detention."

A surprised laugh escaped his lips. He met my gaze, his eyes darkened with desire. "Game on, then, witch."

As I attempted to focus on the lecture, a sudden touch on my knee jolted me. Glancing towards Matteo, I found him diligently transcribing the board's contents into his notebook, a mischievous grin playing at the corners of his lips. His left hand remained hidden under the table, adding to the clandestine nature of his actions.

I tried to discreetly shake my leg to deter his advances, but his hand deftly maneuvered to my thigh, securing a hold on my skirt. His touch sent a tingling sensation through me, disrupting my concentration.

Professor Flitwick's voice cut through the room, requesting me to read aloud from the textbook. Despite my racing heart, I began to read, acutely aware of Matteo's lingering touch inching closer to a more intimate area.

Despite the electrifying distraction, I forced myself to continue reading, attempting to ignore Matteo's provocative gestures. However, his subtle movements became more daring, culminating in a direct contact that made my breath hitch.

His whispered words added to the tension, leaving me flustered and unable to fully focus on the task at hand. The classroom seemed to fade into the background as Matteo's actions dominated my senses.

As Professor Flitwick instructed Matteo to continue reading, a mischievous smirk played on his lips while his hand, hidden under the table, ventured into forbidden territory. His index finger delicately teased my clit, sending a shiver down my spine as I tried to maintain composure and focus on his reading. The weight of Professor Flitwick's gaze lingered, making every movement feel amplified and dangerous.

"Thank you, Mattheo," Professor Flitwick's words acted as a temporary interruption, drawing attention away from our covert exchange.

His touch became more daring as his whole hand began to rub circles against my clit, causing me to clench my legs tightly together. “ don’t close your legs bunny “ A hushed command slipped from his lips when he ensured that Professor Flitwick wasn't observing our clandestine interaction.

"You're so beautiful when you struggle for me," he murmured, his words a tantalizing mixture of praise and provocation.

As his fingers sadly ceased their movement, I closed my eyes in an attempt to steady my racing heartbeat. Our pretense of innocence continued as we both feigned concentration, with him jotting notes in his notebook and me doing the same, all the while feeling the lingering heat from his touch between my thighs.

My quill trembled in my hand as his middle fingertip teased my entrance, a subtle reminder of the delicious tension that pulsed between us.

"You're doing such a good job," he whispered, the words dripping with desire and satisfaction.

As his finger continued its tantalizing dance on my clit, my senses heightened, and the room seemed to blur around us. I could feel the weight of his gaze on me , his right hand came to my notebook and reading what I wrote

His whisper in my ear sent shivers down my spine, his words laced with admiration. "So smart," he praised, his voice barely audible over the classroom's ambient sounds.

A soft moan escaped my lips as his finger teased my sensitive clit, drawing attention from those around us.

“Is there a problem Miss (Y/L/N)?”, Professor Flitwick's inquiring voice momentarily broke the spell

Mattheo sped up his pace and i gulped, shaking my head “Nothing just…I hit my leg.”

His thumb pressed against my clit, a silent command for me to focus, even as waves of pleasure washed over me.

"Silence, darling," he whispered, his touch igniting a fire within me, making me stand at the edge of my seat “it makes me smile when you drip like that before i even touched you “

The intense sensations brought tears to my eyes, but I fought to maintain composure, desperately searching for any distraction. ,and then I noticed his bulge deliberate flex of his thigh muscle all added to the dizzying mix of pleasure and tension I moved my hands but he catch them with his free hand .

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," he warned firmly, his smirk evident in his voice.

Mattheo's skilled fingers pushed me to the brink repeatedly, each pause amplifying my desire. I felt like I was on the verge of losing control, his smirk and chuckle signaling his triumph.

"I admire your strength, bunny," he praised, pushing me closer to the edge. "Cum for me, pretty one," he commanded, igniting a blazing inferno within me with his mere touch. It was a paradox of ecstasy and frustration, and I cum so hard it was insane, leaving me questioning how such intense desire could be evoked with such minimal contact.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

I sat in my dimly lit room, wrapped in a cozy blanket, my favorite book lying forgotten on my lap. The decision weighed heavily on my mind—to go or not to go to the Slytherin party. Earlier that morning, Mattheo's teasing in class had left me flustered and frustrated, but now, as I replayed those moments in my head, a mischievous smile tugged at the corners of my lips.

The memory of his touch, his whispered words, and the forbidden thrill of our secret interactions still lingered, leaving me feeling a delicious ache between my thighs. I pretended to be mad at him for crossing boundaries during Professor Flitwick's lecture, but deep down, I knew I was equally to blame for letting the tension build to such intoxicating levels.

As I contemplated my next move, the allure of the party beckoned to me—a chance to indulge in the forbidden, to dance on the edge of danger. I could almost feel the pulsating music, the dim lights, and the whispered promises of excitement and pleasure.

"Two can play this game," I thought, my heartbeat quickening with anticipation. The thrill of the unknown, coupled with the lingering desire from our unfinished business, fueled my decision. With a determined grin, I tossed the blanket aside and rose from my bed.

I selected a tiny, short green top , hugging my curves in a way that exuded confidence. Paired with a sleek pair of black shorts, a bold statement . Adding a touch of glamour, I applied a vibrant red lipstick that accentuated my lips, and I let my hair cascade down in loose waves, framing my face.

To balance the daring look, I threw on a large black hoodie( that won’t stay on for too long) , leaving the zipper slightly open.The contrast between the snug, the revealing outfit

Tonight, I would embrace the tantalizing dance of temptation and desire, fully aware that every step taken towards the Slytherin party would lead me deeper into the seductive web we had woven together.

"Hey, y/n! Glad you made it," Enzo greeted me with a mix of surprise and warmth as I entered the party. He glanced at me, momentarily taken aback, before announcing my presence to everyone in the room.

"Y/n's here!" Enzo exclaimed, drawing attention to me. "Matt said you were sick and wouldn't be able to come."

I flashed a smile, inwardly amused by Matteo's excuse. "I feel so much better now," I replied, playing along and maintaining an innocent facade. Despite trying to act casual, I couldn't help but notice the gazes lingering on my chest, emphasizing the alluring effect of the green top I had chosen. I met Matteo's eyes, silently acknowledging the unspoken game between us.

He was clearly irritated by the attention I was drawing, but I couldn't help but feel victorious in my little game. With a determined smile, I made my way over to where he was seated, bypassing the available seats and settling directly onto his lap.

I leaned in, planting a kiss on his cheek and greeted him, "Hi, handsome." His eyes reflected a mix of frustration and anger as he tightly wrapped his arms around my waist, though I played innocently by running my fingers through his hair.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked with a harsh tone, clearly not pleased.

"Just here to see you," I replied, my gaze batting innocently at him. "Felt terrible staying angry after our little disagreement this morning." A sly smile played on my lips. "Didn't you miss me?"

Before he could reply, a voice cut through the charged atmosphere."Matteo, mate, another drink?" Jack, or perhaps that was his name, stood beside us, his gaze politely averted. A flicker of something unreadable crossed Matteo's face.

After Jack melted back into the crowd, Matteo's voice dropped to a low growl. "I see what you're doing."

I opened my mouth to respond, but he cut me off again. "And zip up that damn hoodie." His hand reached for the zipper, but I caught his wrist , realizing how close it was to my sensitive areas.

"No," I countered, my voice firm but playful. "It's stiflingly hot in here. Perhaps I'll just take it off ."I strategically brushed my hips against him, scanning the surrounding area for any watchful eyes. Thankfully, the party was in full swing, a blur of dancing bodies and overflowing drinks.

"Stay still," he said through gritted teeth, a hint of desperation lacing his voice.

Despite his demand for me to stop moving, I couldn't resist the temptation to tease him further. My actions were deliberate, a playful challenge to his control.

"Why? Does it bother you?" I asked, feigning innocence but knowing exactly the effect I was having on him. His grip on my waist tightened, a silent warning.

"You're playing with fire, sweetheart," he warned, his voice low and tinged with desire.

I leaned in closer, our faces mere inches apart. "Maybe I like the heat," I whispered, my lips brushing against his ear.

A startled gasp escaped my lips as his hand squeezing the plush of my ass , a possessive gesture that sent a tremor through me. The heat of his gaze seemed to sear through the carefully constructed facade of innocence, the tell-tale flush creeping up my neck a stark contrast to the coolness of the room. My breath hitched, a silent whimper escaping my lips as I unconsciously pressed closer, the frantic rhythm of our breaths mirroring the rising tension.

He could see the flustered look i had on because of the thought of being caught trying to dry-hump him. But he could see the reddened tips of my ears and hear my small whimpers along with your breaths heavying the more i pressed myself against him.

He leaned in, his lips trailing a path of fire down my neck before finding a more sensitive spot. A jolt of electricity shot through me, a strangled moan almost escaping my lips.

"Did you truly believe you held the reins, darling?" he murmured, a sardonic edge to his voice.

"Still dwelling on this morning, aren't you, my love?" His words came out in a murmured tone, a sly smirk forming at the corner of his lips. "I find this new side of you quite appealing—so eager and yearning for me that you couldn't resist acting on your desires."

He could discern the flustered expression I wore, a result of the daring move of trying to dry-hump him. Yet, he also noticed the reddened tips of my ears and heard the soft whimpers escaping me, blending with the deepening breaths as I pressed myself against him.

After a teasing kiss to my neck, his tone turned huskier as he remarked, "Did you honestly believe you were in control, bunny?"

"Still dwelling on this morning, aren't you, my love?" His words came out in a murmured tone, a sly smirk forming at the corner of his lips. "I find this new side of you quite appealing—so eager and yearning for me that you couldn't resist acting on your desires."

In response, I nodded, a small whimper escaping my lips, as I ground my throbbing need against his hardened bulge. "P-please, I need you," I pleaded, my desperation evident.

"You look exquisite when you're craving my cock to fill you up, love," he whispered, his voice filled with lust and desire.

"How badly do you want me to satisfy you, baby?" He inquired, his hand moving forward to gently stimulate my neglected bundle of nerves with the pad of his thumb.

"Badly, very badly," I replied quickly, my voice trembling with desperation, as I lifted my head to meet his gaze, my eyes silently imploring him to fulfill my intense yearning.

I took a deep breath, my voice quivering with need as I angled my hips to align my still-covered entrance with his cock.

"Please," I breathed, my plea hanging in the air as he teased me, moving my hips against his bulge with his hands firmly gripping my ass.

His teasing sent shivers down my spine, making my heart race. "Please, Matt, I need you. Please stop teasing me," I begged, leaning forward to press soft kisses along his jawline and down to his neck.

A guttural groan escaped him as I sucked on his skin, leaning his head back , giving me more space marking him as mine, marks he would wear with pride the next day. "Fuck, bunny, you don't know what you're doing to me," he grunted.

His hardened cock rubbed against my clothed pussy, sending a delightful tingling sensation through my entire body. "Feels so good," I moaned breathlessly, my hand entangled in his dark hair, while I moved on him with increasing fervor.

His hips bucked against mine, his cock rubbing me just right through our clothes. "I could cum like this. Do you feel good too?" I asked, pulling his hair slightly to lift his face as I demanded his lips to meet mine. Our kiss was messy, his tongue taking the lead effortlessly.

Despite us being almost fully dressed, he made me feel incredible, my pleasure building rapidly as I rode him and rubbed my clit on his cock eagerly.

Suddenly, he took control, moving me faster. My head fell back, and I trembled heavily in his hands. "Don't stop, please, Matt. I'm close," I whimpered, my hands balling into fists on his chest, crumpling the fabric of his shirt.

He encouraged me with soft kisses, his hips bucking harder against mine, causing me to feel him twitching. That was my breaking point.

I came hard, my moans and profanities filling the air. I barely noticed how tightly I had clenched my hands into his chest, quickly withdrawing when I realized I might have left a few marks. What would our friends say? Panic started to set in.

But he cut through my thoughts, burying his face in my neck, his lips grazing against my shoulder. "Don’t panic, bunny. No one was watching, and if that makes you feel any better, I would kill anyone who did."

I smiled, reassured by his words, and felt his hands roam around my back.

"Now, lets take this to your room. Enough with the games " he said, zipping up my hoodie before standing up.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

[felassan]

Harding narrative sketches and captions by Nick Thornborrow, under a cut due to spoilers and length:

Nick Thornborrow: "Let's do a thread of Harding sketches and talk about the crazy Twine file I made. There was a visual novel style version of Veilguard's earliest story outline that was written by Trick and the writers and assembled in Twine by me. These black and white sketches are what populated the Twine file."

[artist's caption] Portrait sketch of Harding.

Harding examining an artifact in the ruins of the disrupted ritual.

Harding being struck by arcane powers.

Harding exhibiting magical abilities dispatching a demonic monster.

Nick Thornborrow: "Let's just pause and enjoy these two drawings side by side."

1 of 2. Harding deep in concentration, hands flexed trying to levitate a pebble on the ground. Rook stands by patiently in the background, hands in pockets, eyes locked on the pebble.

2 of 2. The camera has pulled way back. Harding is small in the frame, and not merely moving a pebble, but causing the entire ground to convulse in a radial pattern around her. Rook is being tossed like a ragdoll into the air.

Nick Thornborrow: "Back to the Twine file. It was meant to emulate the flow of the narrative and broadcast that narrative out to the wider team. "Here's what we're trying to make." The challenge I put on myself was to reflect the narrative branching we intended to build."

Harding carrying a torch entering a dark dwarven threshold deep underground.

Harding meeting the Oracle. The Oracle is smaller in this rendering than how she appears in game.

Harding and the Oracle communing through the stone in a strange dark and infinite sublime psychological space.

Harding briefly being overcome with rage. Her eyes gleam red, and red glowing veins glow below her skin a la video game corruption.

Nick Thornborrow: "So I did what no one asked for. You couldn't simply plow through the story. Side missions would become available on a cadence and would be assigned to numbers on a dice roll (a certain amount of variability in side content was planned in the early days of Veilguard)."

Harding being blown back by angry earth based boss monster. This was the boss fight after meeting the Oracle in game.

Rook spends a quiet moment with Harding who is becoming accustomed to her powers, elegantly floating three stones in the air in front of her. A beautiful eroded gorge vista in the background with a narrow waterfall.

A down shot of Rook and Harding. Harding and Rook hold hands.

Rook withdrawing her hand from Harding in pain. Harding's hand glows with lyrium power.

Nick Thornborrow: "You would need to accumulate enough trust with a certain number of factions, and/or progress enough of a companion's story line in order to advance the twine version of the game simulating the rough gating envisioned by designers and writers at the time. (This was a hugely collaborative effort)."

Kal Sharok dwarf trapped in a stone column being rescued by Harding who is exploding the wall of the column with her powers.

Harding bow and arrow action pose surrounded by rocky golem monsters.

Harding confronting a red glowing mirror version of herself.

Harding grim faced, pressing her forehead to that of the red glowing version of herself who is screaming in rage. Symmetrical composition.

Nick Thornborrow: "Finally the twine file was sent out to the team. I was frustrated while working on DA2 and DA:I where team members had no idea what the narrative of the narrative-based game we were making was. It would lead to disjointed decisions being made completely divorced from the efforts of other teams."

Rook in the foreground fighting rock golems. Harding and mirror Harding in hte background floating ominously in a miasma of red lyrium energy.

Harding standing on a precipice overlooking a crowd of Kal Sharok dwarves. Harding is glowing and heroic.

Harding and the Oracle in a dark inifinite void pressing their palms together. They are surrounded by ghostly images of dwarven ancestors representing unbroken lineages.

Harding smiling among a crowd of Kal Sharok dwarves.

Nick Thornborrow: "Like bright and cheery level art being constructed where a world ending apocalyptic magical event was occurring. With Veilguard, it was the earliest into a project where the narrative team could be like "Hey team, it'll change along the way, but this is the story we're going to be iterating on." END"

Rook and Harding enjoying an intimate cozy domestic moment. Harding resting her head in her palm propped up on her elbow, Rook smiling hands behind head on pillow.

Environment shot of Harding's childhood home in a field in the background. In the foreground Rook and Harding are cresting a hill in their walk towards the home.

Rook and Harding sharing a kiss, both figures glowing subtly with lyrium energy.

Art by Nick Thornborrow. [source thread]

[schilders]

after hours | an after hours moment with takeda.

takeda ittetsu x reader (fem) 1.3k words / ao3 content: smut, whiny whimpering takeda, blow jobs, teasing, some begging, one line of praise, semi-public setting note: i need to fuck this man so bad

“o-oh.”

a hand fists into the material of the shirt covering your shoulder, clenching so hard his knuckles turn white. a heavy, breathy whine slips through his lips, forearm draped over his eyes.

takeda can’t stop the way his hips roll into the heat of your mouth. he’s panting now, fingers digging into your skin, legs spreading a little wider.

you shouldn’t be doing this here, not when anyone still around could wander in. and that’s what he thinks is going to happen, that someone is going to walk in and see you on your knees with his cock down your throat.

“wait,” he chokes, hand moving up to curl around your neck, thumb tracing along the length of your throat. “‘s too much. . .”

pulling away with a pop, you look up at him with amusement swimming in your eyes, his wrecked appearance had heat swimming in your gut, pulling at your insides. “what’s wrong, takeda?” you tease, tongue dipping into his slit, swallowing down the pre that spills forth.

“s-stop—if you keep this up . . . “ a damn near sob spills past his lips, cock twitching in your grasp. he thinks he could cum just like this, with your tongue lapping at his head like it was a lollipop.

“what?” you purr, fingers tightening around the base of his cock, keeping him still as your tongue continues its teasing licks. you revel in his helpless little sounds. “gonna cum?”

“yes, god, yes.”

he makes the mistake of looking down at you, air catching in his lungs when he meets your gaze, his eyes rolling when you engulf his head once more, suckling.

you think he looks the prettiest like this—glasses askew and sliding down the sweaty bridge of his nose, a pink flush dusting his face down to his neck. his lips are parted and swollen from where he’s bitten into them, little breathy noises slipping past them.

his hand comes up, middle finger pushing his glasses up only for them to slide down once more. “w-we shouldn’t be doing this, someone’s going to see.” and you pull away again, rolling your eyes while slapping his cock against the flat of your tongue.

he nearly swears, yet can’t stop the way he guides your lips along his length once more, choking out a moan when you hollow your cheeks, taking him in til your nose is brushing his pubic hair, the coarse strands tickling your face.

he could feel the band in his gut drawing tighter the longer you continued to pleasure him with your mouth, thighs tensing as more pre dribbles down the back of your throat. his hand finds purchase in your hair, grasping the roots, while the other grips the edge of his chair, teeth clenching.

every suck sends pleasure shooting up his spine, his body trembling, leaving him helpless in the chair. a particular hard suck has him jerking forward, folding over you, his stomach clenches, panting breaths hot against the top of your head, disrupting your hair. “ f-fuck, i’m so close—”

hearing him swear as he gets closer and closer to orgasm has your eyes rolling, hands tracing patterns into his clothed thighs, head bobbing along his length. drool spills past your stretched lips, trailing down your chin and dripping in his lap. 

“i-i can’t. . .” he groans, fingers tightening in your hair, his grip on the chair causing it to creak. within the warmth of your mouth, his cock throbs, nearly on the brink of unleashing. “no, no, no—” he nearly sobs when you pull back, thick strings of spit stretch from your mouth before snapping.

wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you giggle up at him while wrapping a fist around his shaft, stroking along slowly. “wanna hear you say it, take.” you murmur, the slick sound of your hand nearly drowning out his heavy breathing. and he shudders when you squeeze his tip, a thick bead of pre dribbling out and down his length.

his mind is a muddled mess, barely registering your words, eyes locked on the way your hand works his length. “w-what?”

and you wanted to coo at the way he looked, completely wrecked —hair a mess from where he’d tugged on the strands earlier, glasses sat haphazardly on his face, and shirt and tie a complete mess. “look so pretty, take. you’re handling me so well.” you praise, and he whines, hand curling around the back of your head, trying to guide you back to his length.

“please,” he begs.

“please what? ”

“I want to cum.” takeda’s voice is a mess, a needy mess. his thighs twitch under your hands, spreading just a tad wider, almost as if begging you to swallow him down once more.

“yeah?”

takeda nods, back aching from how he’s sitting, but he needs to feel your mouth on him one more time, to feel that band inside him snap.

with slow, deliberate movements, you part your lips, your tongue drawing out to lick at his slit before taking him back in your mouth. and he nearly cums right then and there, eyes rolling til they ached, breathless moans spilling past his lips as he slumps back into the chair. “yes,” his jaw falls slack, hand resting on your neck while you bob along his length.

you wanted him to look at you when he came undone, but seeing him fall apart like this worked, too, especially knowing you were the one who made him this way.

“yes,” he’s breathless, stomach clenching tight, the heat inside of him boiling over and flooding his entire being. rolling his hips, he carefully thrusts into your mouth, wanting to reach release but not hurt you.

he felt like he was about to snap—and he did. a broken moan spills from his lips as his thighs twitch, cock pulsing within your mouth, fingers itching to push you deeper. his body trembles as he cums, creamy ropes filling your mouth while his hips jerk.

you swallow down eagerly, moaning around his length as he continues to release into your mouth. the hands on his thighs stroking up and down softly.

“oh, god,” he’s lazily thrusting now, eyes flicking down to your face, focusing on the way your eyes flutter shut while you continue to extend his orgasm, pulling every drop from him until he is a shuddering mess. his hand leaves your hair, tapping at your cheek, and your eyes open, locking on him immediately.

a breath gets caught in his chest as he notices the look in your eye. for a second there he thinks you’re going to keep going, continue pulling pleasure from him, but then you pull back with a wet schlick sound, hand coming up to replace your mouth, wanting to get the last few drops out.

“tastes so good, take.” and he swears, cock twitching, one last rope of cum spurts from his cock, painting a sticky diagonal line from your brow to your lip, a stark contrast against your skin. the sight has his hips bucking against the air, a whimper escaping his lips.

you laugh, swiping a finger through the mess on your face and bringing it to your lips, holding his gaze as you do so, and his cock jumps.

“d-don’t do that.”

“why not?” you pout.

swallowing down harshly, he hesitantly mirrors your previous movements, wiping through the cum on your face, gathering it on his thumb before sliding over your lips. your lips immediately part, sucking on the digit while your eyes shut, savoring the taste.

“oh.”

when you pull back, there’s a smirk on your face, “you were worried about getting caught, but look at you now. making a mess of me, takeda.”

“d-don’t remind me.”

[sandsorghum]

Clouds & Curtains

husband!Nanami x wife!reader

wc. 1.3k

summary. Perhaps Nanami's approach to...rousing you in the mornings has changed over the years.

tags. Established relationship, Domestic bliss | Romance | Smut | Body (& Soul)Worship | Mentions of Nanami wanting to be a father

a/n: Super soft, super indulgent piece. Have your cake and eat it nanami girlies. Sometimes i just need to write him a love letter ok

Prologue

Back when you'd just begun to be intimate with each other, Nanami tended to be a little embarrassed about his subconscious (but hardly subtle) desires for you. He would rather suffer his internal, infernal dilemma than disrupt your rest. But he couldn't quite control his urges, squirming between decency and depravity, not when you'd rub up against him, so innocuous and merciless.

It was a hard habit to shake; how Nanami felt he ought to earn your every quiver against him, every whimper, however much he yearned to feel you tremble at his moans at any given moment. It was codified in him, there was a time and a place and patterns to follow, before he could permit himself the pursuit of your shared pleasures.

Of course, you'd unveil him in the evenings, the privilege of your touch stripping bare the prerogatives of his flesh. You unraveled him, his reticence, his reasoning, his very capacity for speech, by braiding your breath and fingers with his, in the friction-begetting-friction tangle of your lips and limbs together.

Yet he still thinks of these mornings, that find the two of you entwined, as an undeserved luxury. So Nanami would do his best instead to focus on your face, how sweet your peaceful expression was. It would be wicked of him not to cherish this, he'd chastise himself for wanting more, for wanting to drown in your adoring gaze, for wanting to return it with his own hungry one, body and spirit beggared by the night, by the hours not spent beheld by you.

Nanami assumed the beauty and tenderness of your countenance would quell, or could sate his appetites, would tame the primal stirrings in his belly. But nothing could be further from the truth, in fact they had the opposite, compounding effect; a lump in his throat would rise, and his desperation would thicken till he could only helplessly rut his hips against you.

And then your eyelids would flutter open, and in the crease of your knowing smile, all his definitions, his distinctions, all that distance between need and greed would collapse with a single kiss.

Years later, and your husband is so absolutely shameless about his...early head starts to the day. He pulls you into him, snug against the cleft of your ass cheeks, content to let your scent and radiance seep through the thin fabric and warm him in a way the sun, in its reluctance behind the clouds and curtains, can never hope to.

He stares at the petulance drooping off the petals of your lips, rose bud coiled tight before daybreak can coax it to unfurl for strobes of gold. Nanami is a patient man, too patient you've often thought, yet you feel his phantom touch, a tender sweep of your mouth, a zephyr whispering in the wings, billowing brocade and swelling muslin, ghost pulling you through the gauze of sleep.

You shift against Nanami to hear him sigh your name, soft and distant, thick with slumber and affection and it's this which rouses you more, not merely his growing rigidity pressed to the curves of you. Although, it helps, feeling every inch of his hunger like this, in a slow swirl and pinch at your waist, the gentlest rocking as your breasts are cradled in his palms, familiar persuasion pebbling your areola. You know he dreams of them swollen with milk, that all your memories of his teeth are girded by the desire for them to be suckled by the most innocent of mouths, baring only gums and tiny wails. Your nubs stiffen and a small smile stretches across your face at the thought that with his wish to grow a family fulfilled, he might find also a small regret, of his monopoly of your mounds contested by another, to whom he owes the genesis of your body's generosity, that sweet fullness dribbling, stolen, into your husband's mouth, enticing in its envy.

This prospect of hypocrisy is to be savoured for another day, far down the road. This morning brings neither hesitation nor urgency, all syrupy light and his maple gaze, the languor of his limbs splayed around you to be treasured just as much as the gradual grind of his cock. There's a certain smugness in its slowness, as with the self-assuredness of his thumb circling a bare sliver of your skin.

A familiar motion that stirs a memory, fuchsia-tinted for the both of you. You remember your then boyfriend stammering and scarlet-tipped, matched to the rosy tips of his ears, excuses lost in the shuffle of sheets and stutter of hips.

"I-it's just-just the t-temp-ah-temperatuur," he'd slurred, the excuse as thin and transparent as the sticky film he laved across your throat, dangerously growing gossamer and feebler with every twitch and each strong buck against your body.

"Mmhmm," you'd hum, carnal ache turning you conciliatory. Such complacency. You had been the one to smirk back then, canines gleaming coy, as you offered ruin in the guise of reprieve.

"Want me to warm you up, darling?" Hands already reaching for him, mind already marveling before your fingers could be reacquainted with their hubris, his girth.

"P-please, anythin-nghing" he'd panted, all wide-eyed desperation to be devoured, sweet thing.

You'd been such a fool.

To not know not greed was a two-way street, this ravenous osmosis, this vicious ouroborous.

You think perhaps, in fact, you got the worse end of the deal, trembling against your spouse now, thighs clamped together.

"My dear," Nanami hums, a teasing timbre dripping honey as he sinks his fingers in, "always so ready for me."

You squirm, eyes screwed shut and fisting the sheets, trying to grasp the pale image of the boy who'd once writhed and blushed beneath you, a spectre all but vanquished. You miss him, sometimes.

You arch your back into Nanami, the way you know he's addicted to, just to hear him groan your name, ragged with the dregs of self-restraint or slumber, you're not sure which, but it's a close enough echo to send pleasure juddering through you, the recollection churning hot in your gut, of when he was wrapped around your finger, instead of your cunt around his.

"Sweetheart."

The tenderness of his tone pries your lids open. He doesn't have to ask, doesn't have to say anything but he does, because he knows you are too stubborn to ask for what you need to hear.

"My love."

He claims your gasp, in the crush and curl of his mouth, in the crook of his fingers.

"My girl."

Another smattering of kisses, chasing the flutters of your belly down, down, down to your creases weeping nectar. He licks a whine from you, pitching high into the air, his husky moan vibrating within you.

"My wife."

You feel the hot gust of Nanami's breath over your clit, as he pauses.

"My wife."

There's a reverence as he repeats himself, pathetic attempts to vanquish his disbelief, wonder glistening in his gold-flecked irises, staring at you in awe, searching for proof this isn't some frenzied fever dream of his.Of course, he finds it in your own unwavering eyes.

You've been such a fool.

There, in the locked gaze your shared history glimmers, that shy boy paralyzed by his worship of you, prostrate as the man before your parted legs now, offering his soul, his past, his future.

You reach for him, and he surges upwards. The collision is wave returning and rising from oceans, over and over, is starburst, is incandescence, is the fission of atoms never, ever meant to be split.

It burns away all notions of him as your acolyte or priest, any concept of deity and devotee.

"My life," he breathes into you, and you feel the throb in your ribs, the furnace of his lungs.

"My life," you repeat to your husband.

Adam. Prometheus. Kento.

This morning and many after, he lavishes you with irreverence, a ravishing of irrelevance; his goddess, his woman, his joy -all that matters is that you are his and he is yours; Together, you forge a paradise that exists for as long as the melding of your souls persist, boundless as horizons and sure as sunrises.

@houseofsolisoccasum

[makereadgrow]

The Why of Sewing 2: Fabric Anatomy (knits)

This post is in a series I am starting that is going to talk about concepts in sewing and fiber arts and try and explain some of the whys behind the hows.

The first thing anyone should learn about sewing is the basic building block of what fabric IS. There are two basic categories for fabric: Woven and Knit. Today I am writing about knit fabric.

Knit fabric is made up of rows of interconnected thread loops. Some knitting machines work back and forth to make a flat fabric, but it is more common for knit fabric to be made in a big tube which is then cut open and the edges sealed. This is the selvedge edge for your knit fabric, but beware! Sometimes when the edge is cut they do not follow the grain correctly.

There is a lot of variety in how the loops can look, but the most basic pattern in knitting is stockinette stitch where the right side of the fabric looks like little v shapes stacked on each other, and the reverse looks like little bumps. This is true in both hand knitting, and the manufacture of knitted cloth. Most fabric used in tshirts and sweatshirts are stockinette. Tshirt fabric is known as jersey.

Below you can see the Right and Wrong Side of a hand knit sweater

Here is a 8x photo of a cotton lycra blend tshirt jersey - it has the same vertical rows of Vs as the handknit sweater.

All knits are at least a little bit stretchy. The loops of fabric just have a lot more movement than the 90 degree angles of woven fabric. Some knit fabric is VERY stretchy, and some is just a little. Fiber content makes a big difference, but I think tackling that is a whole other post.

Knit fabric can be tricky to cut and sew because of that stretch.

The grain of knit fabric is also important to be able to determine. In addition to grain is the DOGS (Direction of Greatest Stretch) this is usually on the cross grain, or perpendicular from the columns of V shaped stitches you see close up. Generally knit fabric is used with the DOGS going around the body. It is especially important for things like neckbands to be cut on the DOGS, as they function like bias on a woven fabric.

below from Left to right I am stretching cotton lycra jersey on grain, on the cross grain (I don't have big enough hands to stretch it to its full ability), and on the bias.

When you cut knit fabric a rotary cutter, mat and pattern weights will help keep the fabric stable and cuts precise, unlike shears and pins. Pins can also cause runs in knit fabrics (like pantyhose). The cut edges of most knits do not fray, which is a big advantage to this type of fabric. This is not true of big chunky sweater knits and handknits. However knits do roll on the edges and the more you handle them, the more they will roll. It will usually roll on both selvedge and the cut edge, but in opposite directions. Generally the best way to handle this is to not be rough with your fabric and when cutting weight down your edges or even tape them down to the cutting mat with masking tape.

Knits also need special sewing machine needles. There are two main types of needles used on knits a ball point needle and a stretch needle. In general a stretch needle is used on fabrics like spandex which are VERY stretchy and difficult to pierce. Most knits do okay with either type, but if you are ever trying to sew a knit and getting lots of skipped stitches or loops on the back try a different needle. Sometimes a microtex needle is used on very fine knits as well.

What is happening to the fabric to make those skipped stitches and thread nests so ubiquitous to beginners trying to work with knit fabrics? The fabric is not being correctly pierced by the needle. Instead of the needle passing through the fabric stretches and travels down into the machine, even a tiny bit of this can disrupt stitch formation.

This image of thread nesting is on a woven fabric, but it will look the same on a knit as well. Citation Link

if you are pretty sure you have the correct needle but you are still getting lots of thread nests, especially at the beginning of the seam, put a bit of tissue paper under the fabric.

Sewing with knits also means considering the stitch you use. A straight stitch seam will break when the fabric stretches because the thread does not stretch. On a regular machine you need to use a narrow zigzag, lightning stitch or a three step zigzag for constructing the seams. For hemming you can use the stitches above, or use a twin needle or the triple stitch on your machine. These stitches vary in how stretchy they are so I recommend trying some out. I almost always choose a narrow zigzag for construction and a three step zigzag for my topstitching.

The other barrier many sewists find when sewing with knit fabric is that on an everyday machine the fabric tends to stretch under the foot. There are a few ways to avoid that. 1. Careful handling - this is never going to be the only solution but rough handling you knits will distort them no matter what else you do. 2. Reduce your foot pressure. Not all sewing machines have this ability, check your manual. 3. Use a walking foot - this foot essentially is like having feed dogs on top and on the bottom of the fabric so it moves smoothly through the machine. It is a very useful thing to have. Beware of off brand walking feet, they might be fine, but a bad walking foot can damage your machine. 4. Use a water soluble double sided tape to stabilize the seam before sewing. This is my least favorite solution, but a tool in the arsenal none the less.

There is a lot to talk about when we talk about knits, but I also don't want this to be a million miles long. Your key takeways from today are the following: How to find the grain and DOGS on knit fabrics, choosing the right needle and stitch for your fabric, and how to handle the fabric under the machine to prevent stretching.