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hearts4hughes · 12 days ago

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DUE DILIGENCE ~ CHAPTER THREE

wallstreet!rafe x assistant!reader | warnings: emotional manipulation, unhealthy power dynamics, obsession-coded behavior, implied violence, brief mentions of death (no graphic detail)

monday starts late. not for the firm, but for you. your alarm goes off, and you ignore it twice. the gala lives on as a blur behind your eyelids—champagne and city light, the ghost of his hand at your hip. it shouldn’t matter—it didn’t matter because you didn’t kiss him and you didn’t touch him. he just danced with you like he’s done it before. like he’ll do it again without another doubt.

still, you’re in by ten. the office is fluorescent and airless, and you’re greeted by a stack of revisions that weren’t there when you left friday. your inbox has bled red. there’s already a message from rafe waiting at the top, sent just before six a.m.

“need numbers rerun. slides 4–7. triple check the EBITDA margin on all of them.”

no greeting, no thank you, but that’s the language he speaks. he’s fluent in clipped urgency and indirect need. you haven’t heard his voice since the gala. he hasn’t summoned you…not yet.

it’s only after noon that he emerges with a black shirt, charcoal slacks, sleeves rolled, top buttons undone like even his clothes are tired of being restrained. he walks past your desk without stopping, but his eyes catch yours like a snare. it lasts less than a second. and still, your pulse trips.

the pitch meeting is at two. a $40 million acquisition. boardroom full of suits and shark smiles. it’s your job to ensure the presentation runs seamlessly, to hand him the right packet before he even asks for it, to sit silent and poised in the seat beside his and make him look more terrifying just by looking pretty.

you do all of that. what you don’t expect is the spreadsheet error on slide five. you triple checked it—you know you did. but there it is, projected on the fifteen foot screen in all its cruel, traitorous glory. a miscalculated margin that makes the entire argument fall apart.

rafe sees it right away. he doesn’t say anything, not at first. he just goes still, all the heat pulled out of the room like a storm sucked the air dry. his jaw tenses, the vein in his temple pulses, and you brace yourself for whatever is about to be unleashed.

“stop,” he says to the room, voice low but lethal. “that’s incorrect.” someone blinks. another stirs. he turns his head slowly, deliberately, and looks at you. “we’ll pick this back up in ten,” he says to the room but his eyes never leave yours. “out.”

the boardroom clears like a bomb’s about to go off. the door shuts behind the last vice president and then it’s just the two of you.

his silence is violent. he turns toward you with that calm, murderous control you’ve seen in him before. although, it’s usually directed at competitors, not you. “you told me the numbers were clean,” he bites, swallowing harshly to compose himself.

“they were,” you reply, too fast, too defensive. “i triple checked that deck. that error wasn’t there this morning.”

he takes a step toward you. “so what happened?” he stands tall in front of you. like usual.

you don’t shrink. confidence courses through your veins like blood. “i don’t know,” you say evenly. “but it wasn’t my mistake.”

his nostrils flare. “then whose was it?”

you fold your arms, eyes still locked onto his. it’s a duel and you’re both waiting who will shoot first. “the analyst team compiled that model. maybe check with the person who actually-”

“don’t get cute with me,” he snaps. his hand comes down hard on the table. the loud slam bounces off the walls.

you flinch, but only slightly. “i’m not,” you say. “i’m telling the truth.”

he’s right in front of you now. heat vibrates off of him. you can hear your heartbeat, feel the blood rushing through your body. “you’re responsible for what gets in front of me,” he growls. “you want to sit at my table? earn your fucking seat.”

your spine straightens. “i do earn it.”

“not today.” his words are a slap. your face stays still, but inside something fractures. and you let it show—just enough.

“fuck you,” you breathe, stepping back.

his eyes narrow and he stills. he doesn’t say anything at first. almost like he’s hoping you didn’t just say that. “what did you just say?”

“you heard me.” your voice is low, sharp. you step toward the door. “i’ve worked my ass off for months fixing shit i wasn’t supposed to fix, staying hours past when i should’ve left. i have cleaned up every mess, anticipated every mood swing, and the second something goes wrong, you treat me like i’m disposable?”

his jaw tics. his hand balls into a fist at his side. “you think you’re special?” he asks quietly. “you think i don’t have a stack of resumes from girls who would kill to sit in your chair?”

you smile, but there’s no humor in it. no warmth, no softness. just the bitter curl of a challenge dressed in lipstick. “go hire one of them, then,” you say, and your voice is steady in the way a sword is before it slices.

for a second, he doesn’t move. doesn’t breathe. he expected you to crumble. he wanted to win, to watch you break, but you don’t. you merely turn and you leave.

your heels click against the polished floor, echoing louder than his silence. the conference room door swings open with a whisper and shuts with a soft click. not a slam, but god, you wanted to. you wanted to throw it off the hinges, to shake the glass in its frame. to make him feel just one ounce of the rage clawing at your chest.

instead, you keep your spine straight and your head high as you walk back to your desk like you didn’t just tell off the most powerful man in the building.

he doesn’t follow you nor does he call.

you stay at your desk, hands shaking as you type out a polite, professional email to the analyst team asking for a timestamped copy of the model. you find the version from sunday night. it’s clean of any error.

you send it to him without commentary. twenty minutes later, your phone rings. it’s not rafe. it’s security. “we need to notify you that mr. cameron’s requested restricted access to level nine for the next hour. do not enter.”

you frown. “what’s on nine?” you pick at the skin around your maroon fingernails. blood draws from the scratch eliciting a wince from you.

“just one of the closed meeting rooms. he also requested that i send you home.“

you hang up without responding. your hands shake as you throw everything into your bag. pens clatter, your charger tangles, papers crumple under the weight of your fury. your jaw is tight, eyes burning, throat locked like your pride’s trying to hold back something messier. you don’t care. let it look messy. let him see it on your desk tomorrow, how you left in a rush, how you didn’t bother to make it neat for him.

he held you like he meant it. there was something fragile and precious in the way his hand rested against your back, head dipped to your shoulder like he’d finally let himself need someone. and then, with that same mouth that didn’t dare kiss you, he tells you you’re replaceable. like none of it meant anything. like you’re a body in a chair, not the girl who’s been silently pulling the strings behind his entire goddamn empire. your heels hit the floor like punctuation and you don’t look back.

an hour later, the headlines break. it lights up your phone when you’re in your pajamas, tea in hand, glasses resting low on your nose. you blink twice when you see it.

individual found dead in financial district parking garage. cause of death under investigation.

you reread the article, finger near your mouth as you chew on the reddened skin. the name jumps out first. then the photo, blurred and cropped like even the press didn’t want to look too closely. your stomach turns cold. no cause of death listed. no suspects. just the usual jargon—tragic, sudden, still under investigation.

you throw your phone onto the cushion next to you, a little harder than you mean to. it bounces once, lands face down like it’s ashamed. your body slumps sideways, elbow buried in the couch, and you squeeze your eyes shut like that’ll stop the spinning. you can try to pretend you didn’t notice the date…or the neighborhood…or the last name. but you did and he was the analyst lead. the one who likely tampered with the numbers. the one you cc’d on the email.

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afloweroutofstone · 2 months ago

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If you've ever been reading your social media feed and suddenly noticed that conservative personalities have latched on to some obscure issue they’ve never cared about before, it may well be that they’re secretly getting paid to do it.

Back in 2013, a host of writers—including future Federalist cofounder Ben Domenech—suddenly all became passionate about rival Malaysian political factions. Surprise: they were receiving hefty payoffs from the Malaysian government.

Last year, Tim Pool, Benny Johnson, and some of the right’s other big-time YouTubers kept pumping out glossy videos for a new site called Tenet Media. It turned out to be a Kremlin operation. They were on the payroll to the tune of millions of dollars each, though they insisted they didn’t know where the money was coming from.

So I watched with interest last week when a host of MAGA types, including comedian Chad Prather, prolific X user Ian Miles Cheong, and Florida pro-Trump personality Eric Daugherty all started, seemingly at random, to defend the right of food-stamp recipients to buy soda.

The posts appeared to be in response to the movement under Robert F. Kennedy Jr.’s “Make America Healthy Again” banner to get legislatures in states like Idaho and Arizona to pass bills that would ban food-stamp recipients from spending that money on soft drinks or other junk foods. The movement has been received well on the right, where the idea of restricting poor people from buying junk food with welfare benefits is an easy sell.

But then, last week, a wave of MAGA types started to take the pro-soda position. In similarly worded posts, Cheong, Prather, Daugherty, popular MAGA meme account “Clown World,” and other X users with big followings said it was unfair for the government to tell recipients how to spend their food-stamp money...

It’s not like these people were previously big soda fans, either. Cheong—a Malaysian citizen who has become fluent in inane American culture war issues through fights in video-game forums—said just a few years ago that Coca-Cola wants Americans “fat and addicted to sugar.”

But there Cheong was, on Thursday, writing on X that he opposed the government “curbing Diet Coke purchases.” For emphasis, he attached a picture of Trump guzzling Diet Coke on a golf course.

The first indication that something was afoot came on Friday, when Blake Marnell, an online pro-Trump anchor who goes by “Brick Suit” (he wears a suit that looks like border-wall bricks), posted comparisons of the pro-soda tweets authored by MAGA influencers, illustrating what appeared to be some sort of coordinated campaign. The attention grew after Turning Point USA’s Riley Gaines claimed on X that she’d been offered money to oppose the soda bills that had earned praise from RFK Jr. She said that she’d turned the cash down.

Conservative sleuths claimed the campaign came from Influenceable, a social-media startup aimed at getting Gen-Z influencers to promote companies’ messaging. One sleuth, Nick Sortor, posted documents purporting to be from Influenceable that laid out talking points for the pro-soda campaign and how influencers could claim money for posting the messages...

In 2023, right-wing website Current Revolt posted documents claiming to show Influenceable payment offers in exchange for social-media posts backing embattled Texas Attorney General Ken Paxton.

And last week brought us another difficult-to-decipher episode when Cheong, “Clown World,” and other right-wing influencers got inexplicably passionate about opposing a Texas Senate electric-grid regulation bill that otherwise received little coverage.

#influence campaigns are everywhere

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chososbbyg · 1 month ago

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Girl you loud! - C.K.

Synopsis: When Choso, with his label of the geekiest anime nerd on campus, somehow becomes best friends with the loudest, hottest person on campus, everyone was confused—except them. Years of playful teasing, long stares, and late-night tension finally snap in a moment too charged to ignore. One touch turns into a kiss, a kiss into clothes on the floor, and suddenly, they’re not just breaking the rules.

Pairing: Choso Kamo x fem!reader

Content: fem!reader, friends to lovers, smut, first times, oral (female receiving), cúnnilingus, pet names, swearing, tummy bulges,

wc: 6.8k

Choso was the geekiest geek you’d ever met—and not in a cute, socially awkward “oh my god he likes Star Wars” kind of way. No, Choso Kamo was deep in it. He wore the same black hoodie like it was stitched to his soul, kept a Yujiro Hanma phone charm dangling from his cracked screen, and didn’t speak to anyone unless they spoke fluent anime references first.

You? You were loud. Loud in the way that filled hallways, group chats, and Friday night parties. People knew your laugh before they knew your name. You were the person who somehow sat at everyone’s lunch table, the one professors low-key tolerated because you were smart and had jokes. The kind of person who could walk into a room and make it warmer just by being there.

So when people saw you hanging around Choso—quiet, brooding, mysterious Choso—they blinked twice. Then three times. Then again when you waved to him in the quad and he actually waved back.

"What the hell is going on?" someone had whispered once in lecture, watching you pass Choso a candy bar like it was a love letter.

The answer wasn’t dramatic. You’d been paired for a group project in second-year psychology—something painfully dry about memory retention and dopamine levels. He’d mumbled maybe three words to you that first meeting, scribbled out most of the research in precise, blocky handwriting, and then disappeared when it was time to present. You’d carried the project on your back with your voice and charisma, he’d carried it with raw academic firepower. And somehow, it worked.

You didn’t stop talking after that.

Well—you talked. He mostly listened.

But he did start sitting closer to you in class. You noticed. And he did start replying to your memes. Not with full sentences, but with “LMAO” and sometimes even an emoji. And once? He sent you a Gintama reaction image and you nearly passed out.

At some point, it just became normal. You’d swing by his dorm with bubble tea and chips during cram season. He’d send you anime recs with time stamps and emotional warnings. You’d call him late at night to rant about people who couldn’t take a hint. He’d hum in response, or sometimes say something low and dry that made you laugh until you cried.

He was calm, steady, and weirdly good at remembering the small things. You were a wildfire. He never tried to put you out.

And maybe that’s why you never noticed when the tension started creeping in.

Maybe it was the way his eyes lingered when you sat cross-legged on his bed, flipping through a psych textbook and munching chips. Maybe it was how he never pulled away when your knees bumped, or how your teasing started getting more flirtatious—more like testing the waters than just messing around.

But there was a moment. A small one.

It was late—2 a.m., maybe. You were on his bed, scrolling through Instagram while he sat at his desk, sketching something. You’d kicked off your shoes, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, and you’d said, “You ever think about how weird it is that we’re friends?”

He didn’t look up.

“You say that like you’re slumming it,” he replied, pencil moving in slow, controlled strokes.

You rolled onto your stomach, chin in your hand. “Nah. Just saying it surprises people.”

“They think you’re too loud to be friends with someone like me.”

You paused. “You think I’m too loud?”

His pencil stopped.

He looked up, met your gaze, and said in that quiet, even voice: “I think you’re loud in a way that drowns everything else out. And sometimes… I like that.”

Something shifted in your chest. Something warm. Something dangerous.

But before you could say anything else, he looked back down at his sketchpad.

And just like that, the moment passed.

Or so you thought.

If anyone asked, you’d still say you and Choso were “just friends.”

It was easy to say. Easy to laugh off the looks when you shared your snacks with him during lectures or when he let you lean on his shoulder during anime marathons without flinching. You’d make a joke about adopting a local stray goth. He’d grunt and roll his eyes like he didn’t secretly enjoy the attention.

But under all the teasing, something heavier was forming—quiet and persistent, like fog creeping under a door.

You noticed it in the way he let you talk endlessly about dumb drama in your friend group, nodding along even when you knew he didn’t care who fucked who at last week’s party. Or the way he always had your favorite drink in the mini fridge, no matter how randomly your cravings changed.

You noticed it when you were at a house party, surrounded by music and bodies and energy, and your brain glitched when someone kissed your neck from behind—and it wasn’t him. You didn’t even want it to be him… right?

And you noticed it when you caught him watching you. Not in a creepy way. But in a focused way. Like he was cataloguing your habits, your smiles, the way your fingers curled when you were thinking.

One night, after a long day of back-to-back classes and even more back-to-back people, you showed up at his door, dropped onto his bed, and groaned into his pillow.

“I hate everyone,” you declared.

He looked up from his manga. “Everyone?”

“Everyone but you.” You peeked up. “I saved you from the purge.”

A pause. Then: “I’m honored.”

You rolled over, arms splayed wide. “Do you ever get tired of being the smart, mysterious loner?”

“No.”

“Do you ever get tired of being this hot?” you teased, shooting him a wink.

His eyes flicked to you over the edge of the page. “Do you?”

You froze. Just for a second. Then laughed it off, like always. But that warmth in your chest returned. Like it always did with him now. It wasn’t a crush. Not really. He wasn’t the type you normally went for. He didn’t chase. He didn’t flirt back the way others did.

But there was something about the way he looked at you—like he saw you and didn’t flinch. Didn’t try to make you smaller or quieter or easier to deal with.

Choso was quiet, but he wasn’t soft. He didn’t pretend to be clueless when you flirted. He just held it in that deep, unreadable expression, like he was deciding whether or not to answer a question on a test that wasn’t graded.

Still, nothing ever happened—not until one night, everything started unraveling.

It started normal. Netflix, takeout, some light roasting.

“Your taste in anime is garbage,” you said, pointing to Fire Force which was playing on his tv.

“And yet you watched every episode,” he deadpanned, biting into a spring roll.

“I was waiting for it to get good!”

“It never did,” he said. “That’s the point.”

You snorted, stretching out on his bed while he sat at the edge. Your foot nudged his thigh absentmindedly. He didn’t move.

“I’m bored,” you said, phone abandoned, eyes drifting up toward him. “Entertain me.”

“I’m not your jester.”

“Not with that attitude.”

You poked his side. He caught your wrist.

You both froze.

It was the first time he’d grabbed you. His fingers were loose around your skin, thumb brushing along the underside of your wrist without thinking. It wasn’t aggressive. It wasn’t even firm.

But it made your whole arm light up.

Your breath hitched. “You’re touching me.”

“You touched me first.”

You didn’t pull away. Neither did he.

“I do that a lot,” you said, softer this time.

“I know.”

Silence stretched. Your pulse kicked up. You weren’t sure when you started looking at his mouth instead of his eyes, but it was happening. It was definitely happening.

And then he let go.

And it was over.

But not really. Not for you.

You didn’t say anything the rest of the night. You just sat closer than usual. Let your leg remained pressed to his. Laughed a little too hard at his dry jokes. You watched the way his fingers twitched, the way his jaw tightened when you touched his knee to “adjust your seating.”

And he didn’t stop you.

That night, in your own bed, you couldn’t sleep. Your skin still buzzed from that tiny point of contact. Your mind wouldn’t shut up. It felt like a circuit had closed. Like something electric was just waiting to spark.

You picked up your phone. Opened the text thread.

You: So are we flirting or am I just hot and delusional

Three dots appeared. Then disappeared.

Then again.

And again.

Then nothing.

You stared. Heart in your throat.

Then finally:

Choso: Not delusional.

You stared at the screen, lips parted.

No emoji. Just a single sentence that made your brain short-circuit.

You: Cool. Just checking. Goodnight emo boy.

Choso: Night princess.

You turned your phone over and screamed into your pillow.

It wasn’t that anything changed between you and Choso. It was just that… more of the world faded when it was the two of you.

Like tonight.

You were sitting on the floor of his dorm, your back against his bed, legs stretched out and socked toes brushing against his knee. He was slouched in his desk chair, head tilted to the side, reading over some article about cognitive bias for a psych elective neither of you actually liked.

The only sound in the room was the soft hum of his fan and the occasional crinkle of chip bag plastic between your fingers.

“Confirmation bias is fake,” you muttered. “I know I’m right because I’m always right.”

Choso didn’t even look up. “That’s exactly what it is.”

You tossed a chip at him. He dodged it with barely a tilt of his head.

“God, you’re annoying,” you grumbled, mostly for effect.

He flipped a page. “You came over.”

You scoffed. “Because you have snacks.”

“You brought the snacks.”

“…Details.”

Choso didn’t smile. Not really. But the corners of his mouth curved just enough to make you feel like you won something.

This was how it always went. You made noise, he absorbed it. You sprawled, he stayed still. Like opposite poles of a magnet — no push, no pull, just a kind of quiet equilibrium. You’d never really had that with anyone else.

The silence returned. But it was a good silence. A comfortable one.

You glanced up at him — hoodie sleeves pushed up, legs crossed loosely, glasses perched low on his nose. The warm lamplight made his skin look softer. He looked… peaceful.

“Do you ever get tired of me?” you asked suddenly.

Choso blinked. “What?”

“I’m loud. And all over the place. You’re, like, zen. Doesn’t that clash?”

He shrugged, still reading. “Not really.”

You blinked. “Why not?”

“Because you’re not just loud. You’re also consistent.”

You stared at him.

“...thanks.”

He shrugged again.

You nudged his leg lightly with your foot. “Be careful. You’re sounding dangerously close to affectionate.”

“I’ll survive.”

You didn’t push it. Just smiled a little and kept eating your chips.

Later, you ended up stretched across his bed, half on your stomach, phone dangling in one hand as you scrolled through a shared playlist of Deftones and Frank Ocean. Choso was at the foot of the bed now, typing something for his assignment.

“Do you want music or silence?” you asked.

“Whatever you want.”

“You hate that answer.”

He glanced back at you. “No. I hate it when people say it and don’t mean it.”

“…But you mean it?”

He nodded.

You stared at the back of his head for a second, then hit play on Sextape, which filled the room like soft rain.

It felt… nice.

“Did you ever think we’d be friends?” you asked out of nowhere.

“Not really.”

“Wow. Rude.”

“I didn’t think you noticed me.”

You sat up a bit. “Of course I did. You were the guy who read Parasyte under the bleachers during spirit rallies.”

“And you were the girl who led the spirit rallies.”

“Balance,” you said with a grin.

Choso gave a half-nod like he agreed.

You settled back into the bed, watching him type in silence. There was something satisfying about it — being with someone you didn’t have to perform around. You could exist as you were: messy, loud, unfiltered. And he never told you to tone it down. He just… let you be.

And sometimes, you let yourself wonder why that felt like such a relief.

You left around midnight. He walked you to the elevator like he always did.

As you stepped inside, you glanced back at him.

“Hey, Choso?”

“Yeah?”

You raised your eyebrows. “This sounds dumb, but… thanks for always letting me be weird in your space.”

He blinked, like he wasn’t sure how to answer that.

Then he nodded. “You’re never weird.”

The elevator doors closed before you could say anything back.

But you were smiling the whole way home.

You didn’t plan on seeing Choso every day. It just started happening.

A shared class here, a library session there. Then it was lunch. A late walk to campus. Then suddenly you were texting him just to say, “I’m eating a bagel and it reminded me of you because it’s kinda plain but reliable” and he’d reply with, “I hope the bagel chokes you.”

It was your love language.

You found yourself moving through campus differently, like your internal compass now tilted slightly in his direction. You didn’t even realize you were scanning the quad for his hoodie until the rare days he wasn’t there.

He never really sought you out, not first. But he never said no when you showed up either. Just slid his laptop over so you could squeeze into the booth beside him. Or held out his water bottle without being asked. Or saved the last rice cracker snack for you even though you’d made fun of it the week before.

One Thursday, you caught him waiting outside your lecture hall.

He didn’t say he was waiting for you. Just handed you an iced matcha and started walking beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It wasn’t the drink that made your chest feel warm. It was the fact that he remembered you liked it “even though it tastes like grass.”

It wasn’t romantic. Not yet.

But you started to learn the shape of his silence.

Choso wasn’t quiet the way other people were. He wasn’t empty. His silences were full — like pages he hadn’t turned yet, thoughts he hadn’t shared. He spoke when it mattered, and when he didn’t, you filled the space with your noise.

It worked.

You talked about dumb anime tropes, weird professors, whether your resident advisor was a lizard person. He added one-liners here and there, deadpan but sharp. When he did laugh — really laugh — it was soft, almost like it surprised him.

You started collecting those laughs like rare cards.

You didn’t know when it started mattering this much. When the first thing you looked for in a crowded room became him. When the walk back to your own dorm after hanging out started feeling heavier.

You weren’t in love.

You weren’t.

You just liked the way his presence made you feel a little less scrambled. Like he grounded you — your chaos wrapped in his calm.

You hadn’t had that before.

One night, you showed up at his room after a crappy day. No warning, no reason. Just a hoodie, your keys, and a frown.

He opened the door, took one look at you, and stepped aside.

“You’re not going to ask what’s wrong?” you said.

“You’ll tell me when you’re ready.”

So you collapsed onto his bed, face first, groaning into his blanket.

He sat on the floor beside the bed, legs crossed, notebook balanced on his lap.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

Eventually, you said, “I bombed my presentation. Like, full system meltdown. Word soup. Panic stammering. One girl visibly cringed. I think my soul left my body.”

Choso turned a page in his notebook. “She probably has no soul of her own. That’s why she needed yours.”

You laughed into the blanket. “Why are you like this?”

“It’s a coping mechanism.”

You rolled onto your side to face him. “You ever mess up like that?”

“Once. In middle school. My voice cracked in the middle of a debate round and I still think about it when I try to sleep.”

“Trauma twins.”

He gave you a small smile.

You watched him work in silence for a while. You liked his hands. Not in a weird way — just how precise they were. Thoughtful. You liked the way he held his pen like it was an extension of his fingers.

You thought about asking him to stay quiet with you for a little longer. But you didn’t have to.

He already was.

Things blurred after that. You stopped noticing what day it was when you were with him. The hours just slipped past.

Once, he caught you staring off into space during a movie and handed you a pillow without a word.

Another time, you fell asleep at his desk while he was studying. You woke up to a hoodie draped over your shoulders and a single post-it stuck to your forehead:

“Drool doesn’t count as a contribution to the group project.”

You kept the note in your phone case.

You still weren’t touching. Not really. A knee bump here, a hand brushed there. Nothing anyone else would notice. But you were keeping track.

And he was letting you stay longer. Later.

One night, walking back from the dining hall, you told him, “You’re my favorite place to be.”

He blinked, looked away, and said, “You’re weird.”

But you saw the way his ears turned red under the streetlight.

You’d sent Choso something dumb — a meme about anime hair physics and a “this is you” comment. Normally, he’d reply with a dry “Blocked.” Or a timestamped picture of the manga shelf at his favorite store. Or even just a dot.

But this time, nothing.

An hour passed. Then three. Then the whole day.

You didn’t spiral — you weren’t that kind of person — but you did open your chat with him a few times just to stare at the read receipt that wasn’t there.

You tried to brush it off. People got busy. Maybe he was in the zone. Maybe he’d dropped his phone in ramen broth or was saving a cat from a tree. But still — it felt off.

The next day, he showed up at your table in the library like nothing happened.

“Hey,” he said, dropping into the seat beside you like he hadn’t gone radio silent for 24 hours. “You print the notes?”

You blinked at him. “...Yeah.”

He looked at you, waiting.

You passed him the paper without a word.

He didn’t mention the silence, and you didn’t ask. But something sharp curled under your ribs.

It happened again a week later.

This time, it was at a party.

You hadn’t planned to go, but your friends dragged you out. You wore something fun, drank something pink and suspiciously sweet, and spent most of the night texting Choso memes from across the room while trying to avoid some guy who kept mispronouncing your name.

You didn’t expect Choso to show up — parties weren’t his thing — but when you looked up and saw him leaning against the wall in his usual all-black hoodie, your heart did something weird and uncalled for.

You lit up, waved. He nodded.

You made your way over.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” you said, grinning.

“Didn’t want to come,” he replied.

“Then why did you?”

Choso looked over your shoulder. “My roommate said I never leave the dorm.”

You tilted your head. “So you’re here to prove a point?”

“No. I’m here because I thought I might find you.”

Something in your chest flickered.

But then someone called your name behind you — the mispronouncer. He was tipsy now, trying to shove a drink in your hand and make conversation you didn’t want.

You glanced back at Choso, but he was already turning away, heading outside.

You followed him a few minutes later, but he was gone.

The silence the next day wasn’t full. It was loud.

You texted him, simple: “You good?”

He replied hours later. “Yeah. Just tired.”

You stared at the screen.

You didn’t reply.

It was dumb. You knew it was dumb.

But it kept happening.

Small things. He’d stop replying halfway through conversations. Or show up late and not say why. You’d feel his eyes on you in class, but he’d leave without walking with you afterward. It wasn’t angry distance — just... murky.

You tried to tell yourself it was nothing. That you were imagining the shift.

But the thing was, you missed him. And he was still there, technically. Still in your orbit. Still showing up. But something about the way he held himself around you — tighter, quieter — started to feel like a door creaking shut.

It made you ache.

Not because he owed you anything.

But because this friendship had become your constant. Your soft place to land. And suddenly, it felt like the ground was tilting.

The conversation finally cracked open during one of your regular library sessions.

You were both half-distracted — you tapping your pen against your notebook, him staring blankly at his screen.

You glanced over. “You’ve been on that sentence for fifteen minutes.”

Choso didn’t look at you. “It’s not coming out right.”

You raised an eyebrow. “The paper or your brain?”

He didn’t answer.

You sighed, then said, carefully, “Did I do something?”

That got his attention.

He turned his head, eyes steady on yours. “What?”

“I just—” You hesitated. “You’ve been... off.”

A beat of silence.

Then: “I’m not mad at you.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He looked down at his hands.

You watched him.

Waited.

Finally, he said, “Sometimes it feels like I’m more important to you when nothing else is going on.”

That hit you square in the chest.

You sat back. “Is that really what you think?”

He shrugged, but it was stiff. “I don’t know what we are. Sometimes I think I do, and then we’re at a party and you’re flirting with some guy and I feel like I made it up.”

“I wasn’t flirting,” you said, too fast.

“I know,” he said. “That’s not the point.”

You didn’t say anything.

Because honestly? You weren’t sure what the point was anymore. Or where the line had gone between you two. Or if there ever even was one.

Choso ran a hand through his hair.

“I don’t want to fight,” he muttered.

“We’re not fighting,” you said quietly. “We’re just... finally saying stuff out loud.”

He didn’t reply.

You closed your notebook.

“Maybe we need to figure out what this actually is.”

Choso glanced at you. Not defensive. Just tired.

“Maybe,” he said.

That night, you didn’t text him.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t text you either.

It took three days of silence before either of you caved.

You thought about texting him more times than you could count. You even drafted a message once — “Want to talk?” — but deleted it before you hit send. The pause between you wasn’t angry. Just uncertain. Like both of you were standing on either side of something fragile, waiting to see who would step first.

In the end, it was him.

He didn’t send a meme or an apology.

He sent one word.

“Here?”

And that was enough.

You didn’t speak at first when you opened the door.

Just stepped aside and let him in. He walked past you like he always did, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair loose around his face, backpack half-zipped. You watched the way he dropped his stuff on your desk, sat on your bed like it was muscle memory.

It was.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Didn’t know if you wanted space.”

“I didn’t want space,” you said quietly. “I just didn’t know what to say.”

He nodded once, like he understood.

Because of course he did.

That was the thing about Choso. He always got the parts of you that other people missed. The parts you didn’t have to explain.

You sat down next to him.

Close — not touching, but closer than before.

“I don’t know what this is either,” you admitted. “But I know I want it. Whatever it is.”

Choso looked at you. His eyes didn’t waver. “I don’t want to be just a background character in your life.”

“You’re not,” you said. And this time, it came out certain. “You’re not.”

You didn’t reach for him. You didn’t need to.

The space between you shifted anyway.

You talked for hours.

Not about “us” or “what now” — just life. Stupid things. Childhood memories. What you thought college would be like versus what it was. You told him you used to think you’d marry a K-pop idol. He told you he thought Naruto was going to teach him how to make friends.

At one point, you were both laughing so hard you had nearly forgot about the events of the past three days.

Then the laughter faded, and the quiet returned. But it was the good kind again. Warm. Safe.

You were lying on your side now, facing him. The room glowed soft with lamplight. His hair was tied up messily, and you could see the little crease on his cheek from your pillow. His hoodie sleeves were pushed past his wrists, fingers curling gently into the blanket.

It would’ve been so easy to lean in.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you asked, “What changed?”

He looked at you for a long moment.

Then he said, “I think I realized I’d started needing you more than I meant to.”

You swallowed.

“That scares you?”

He nodded.

“It scares me too,” you admitted.

But neither of you moved away.

You didn’t kiss that night.

You didn’t even touch.

But when he stayed — not because he was tired, but because it felt like where he belonged — you curled up facing each other and whispered whatever thoughts came next. Little things. The kind of thoughts you only share in low light, when no one’s pretending.

And when you fell asleep, it was with the quiet understanding that something had shifted.

Not in a way that needed naming.

Just in a way that felt real.

The next few days were different, but not dramatic.

He still rolled his eyes at your chaotic texts. You still stole his fries when he wasn’t looking. But the edges had softened. The moments between you stretched a little longer. The silences weren’t full of questions anymore — just waiting.

He started sitting closer.

You started letting your knees touch.

One afternoon in his dorm, you were reading on the floor while he played something on his Switch, and you leaned your head back against his leg without really thinking about it.

He didn’t say anything.

Just rested a hand gently on your hair and left it there.

Like it had always belonged.

And one night — not planned, not dramatic — you kissed him.

Not because you couldn’t hold back.

But because it felt right.

Because you’d spent months learning his silences, earning his trust, and choosing each other over and over without needing to say why.

You were both lying on your sides again, this time in your room. His hand was next to yours, not touching, but close enough to feel the heat.

You looked at him. He looked back.

And you asked, “Okay?”

He said, “Yeah.”

So you leaned in, soft and slow, and kissed him like he was something you already knew by heart.

He kissed you back like it surprised him. Like he hadn’t let himself hope.

When you pulled back, he was still looking at you, eyes half-lidded, dazed but steady.

“I thought we weren’t doing this,” he whispered.

“Maybe we are now.”

He nodded once.

And then he pulled you closer — arms warm, hands steady — and held you like a truth he didn’t have to be afraid of anymore.

The room felt heavier than usual — not with tension, but with gravity. Like every glance, every breath, every shared silence between you and Choso was suddenly full of meaning.

It was late. Music hummed faintly from your speaker, soft synth chords that had long since faded into ambiance. You were both on your bed, side by side, shoulders brushing now and then. But neither of you pulled away. You hadn’t for a while.

Choso’s eyes flicked toward you, lingering. You met them.

And this time, you didn’t look away.

“Can I ask you something?” you said quietly.

He nodded, lips parting like he’d been waiting for you to speak.

“Do you want this?” Your voice barely carried the words. “Not just tonight. I mean… us. Me.”

Choso’s answer came in layers. First, a nod. Then his hand sliding slowly over yours. Then finally, voice hoarse:

“I’ve wanted you. For a long time.”

Your breath caught. Not from surprise — you’d known. You’d both known.

But hearing it now, said aloud, undressed something inside you.

“I want you too,” you said.

His hand tightened slightly on yours, thumb brushing your knuckles.

“I don’t want to do this unless you’re sure,” he said, brows slightly furrowed — not from doubt, but from the weight of how much he cared.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” you whispered.

A quiet beat passed between you. Then Choso leaned forward, slowly, deliberately, until his forehead rested against yours.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t a feverish blur of mouths. It was steady, unshaken — like he wanted to remember it. Like he was pouring everything he hadn’t said into the way your lips met.

You deepened it, and he didn’t hesitate.

Your hands found his hoodie. He let you pull it up and off, breath catching as your fingers ghosted over bare skin. He watched you like you were unreal, gaze fixed and reverent.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, like he couldn’t help it.

You smiled, pulling your shirt over your head too. His breath hitched at the sight, eyes dragging down slowly.

You didn’t rush.

You touched — carefully at first, like memorizing each other by hand. Choso’s fingers were tender, exploring your sides, your back, the dip of your spine. Every time you exhaled, he matched your rhythm.

When you leaned back on your elbows, inviting him closer, he hovered just above you, his hair falling around your face like a curtain. You reached up and tucked some behind his ear.

“I’m right here,” you whispered.

“I know,” he breathed.

He kissed down your throat. Across your collarbone. Each movement was intentional — like he was trying to worship you, not consume you.

When your hands slid to the waistband of his sweats, he pressed his forehead to yours again.

“Still good?” he asked, voice shaking a little.

You nodded. “Yeah. I want you.”

He kissed you once more, deeper this time.

And then — you gave in to each other.

Not clumsy. Not frantic.

Just real.

Choso’s hands moved with hunger now, trembling but determined as they found the hem of your shirt. He gripped it tighter than he meant to — like if he didn’t hold on hard enough, it’d slip away. In one breathless motion, he pulled it over your head, and when your bra-clad chest was revealed to him, he stilled.

His eyes darkened.

He swallowed hard.

He needed you. Not in passing. Not for tonight. He needed you like gravity — like something inevitable.

Fumbling slightly, he fought with the clasp of your bra, brows furrowed in frustration until it finally gave way. The fabric slid down your arms, and when you tossed it aside, he stared like he was witnessing something sacred.

He ducked his head to your chest, mouth open, eyes blown wide with wonder. His lips latched eagerly to one of your nipples, licking and sucking in clumsy, tender rhythm. He was clearly inexperienced — no patterns, no practiced finesse — just the overwhelming need to taste, to explore, to learn you.

When you sat up and pulled his shirt off in return, he paused. The sudden exposure made his breath catch. His skin was pale, unmarked — years of hoodies and shyness shielding what now lay bare before you.

“hot.” you whispered.

But he was already lowering himself down your body, eyes flicking between your face and your waist. He gently tugged your sweats down, slow and reverent, only to be met with black lace.

His breath hitched.

Those were the ones he’d once caught a glimpse of through the laundry bag. The ones he’d tried not to picture. Tried and failed.

“Fuck,” he murmured. “You’re… you’re so fucking gorgeous.”

He looked to you again for permission — and when you gave it, soft and sure — he slid your panties down, the cool air brushing against heated skin.

Choso hesitated just a moment. Then he dipped his head.

He didn’t know what he was doing — but he wanted to know. He kissed you like a prayer, tongue tentative at first as he explored your folds. But as soon as he found the spot that made your hips twitch, your hand tangles in his hair — that was it.

He moaned softly into you, the sound vibrating against your core.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered against your skin, voice breathless. “I’ve got you…”

When you arched, whimpering his name, he groaned — the kind of sound that came from deep in his chest, primal and undone.

“Say it again,” he begged, voice low and shaking.

“Choso—” you gasped.

“Good girl.” His praise was rough, reverent.

Every flick of his tongue, every suck, every shift in pressure — it was messy, a little desperate, but full of feeling. And when his snakebites dragged cold and hard over your clit, it was over. Your back arched. Your moans turned ragged.

The room spun.

The pleasure was relentless.

You could barely form a thought, let alone a sentence. But you managed one:

“Want you. All of you. Now.”

He lifted his head, lips and chin shining, eyes dark and wild. There was something feral in the way he looked at you — but underneath it, something soft. Overwhelmed.

He leaned forward to kiss you, messy and breathless, tasting you on your own lips. You could feel his heart racing through his chest. He kissed you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

Your fingers tugged downwards at the top hem of his boxers and sweats, pulling them just low enough to free his throbbing and twitching member.

Your hand slid down between your bodies, fingers curling around the length you’d only imagined — thick, flushed, and big. He twitched in your grasp, groaning against your lips.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

Then: “Are you sure?”

You nodded, locking eyes with him. “Completely.”

He shed the last of his clothes with a quiet exhale, skin flushed and chest rising fast. His hand trembled just slightly as he lined himself up with your entrance, nerves and anticipation flooding every inch of him. He looked at you—really looked—and found only trust in your eyes.

With a deep breath, he eased forward, sinking his member into you inch by inch. Your warmth pulled him in, slow and steady, until he was fully seated inside you.

“Ah—nghh, Choso…” you gasped, voice catching as he filled you completely. The stretch, the weight, the depth of him—it was unlike anything else. You clenched around him instinctively, and his mouth fell open in stunned pleasure.

He paused, panting softly, hands braced at your hips as he looked down at your body—at everything he was finally allowed to see, to feel.

Then his gaze landed on your lower stomach… and there it was.

A small bulge, subtle but visible, rising with each shallow thrust of his hips.

“Look…” he whispered, awe-struck, one hand sliding up to rest gently against it. He pressed down, just enough to feel the resistance. His lips curled into a grin. “Look how deep I am.”

Your breath hitched, eyes fluttering, the sight in front of you was one to behold, Choso, but he had hairs sticking to his,

He nodded, forehead pressing against yours briefly as he adjusted his grip—and then he moved.

Each thrust was deeper, harder, more confident than the last, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing between your moans. He gave you everything—every inch, every pulse, every ounce of emotion he’d buried for so long.

His thrusts were fast, a little uneven, but each one felt intentional—like he was thinking through every movement, trying to memorize what made you fall apart. You could see the focus in his expression, jaw tight, eyes locked on the way his cock disappeared inside you again and again, twitching with every clench of your walls.

“Feelin’ good, princess?” he asked, voice rough with a cocky little smirk.

As if he didn’t already know.

Maybe his rhythm wasn’t perfect yet—raw and unpracticed in some places—but he made up for it in every way that mattered. He was big, yes, but more than that… he was present. Watching every reaction. Learning you. Wanting to get it right.

And fuck, he was getting it right.

Within another minute, his pace had become frantic—desperate. Each thrust was rougher, deeper, like he was afraid if he let up, you’d vanish beneath him. His hips snapped forward with punishing rhythm, and his breath hitched in a ragged groan, loud and drawn-out, the kind that only came when he was teetering on the edge.

You grabbed his face, breathless and blissed out. “Inside, baby—cum with me,” you moaned.

And God, he listened.

The moment your walls tightened around him, fluttering at the base of his cock, he let go. A guttural, needy sound spilled from his lips as he buried himself deep, hips stuttering. Hot release flooded into you in thick pulses, his body trembling from the force of it, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he whined through the comedown.

The room fell into a hush, broken only by your ragged breaths and the faint thump of Choso’s heartbeat against your chest.

He stayed there for a moment—still inside you, forehead pressed to your shoulder, trying to catch his breath. His arms trembled slightly as they wrapped around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, like he wasn’t ready to let go just yet.

“You okay?” he asked softly, voice hoarse, words barely brushing your ear.

You nodded, lips curved in a dazed smile. “Yeah. You?”

He let out a quiet laugh—more exhale than sound—and nuzzled into your neck. “Better than okay,” he murmured. “I feel like… I don’t even know. Floating?”

You ran your fingers through his hair, gently brushing the damp strands off his forehead. He leaned into your touch like a cat, eyes fluttering shut.

Eventually, he pulled out with a soft hiss, careful and slow. He glanced down, cheeks flushed at the mess, and then looked at you like you’d hung the moon.

“I’ll clean you up,” he said, already shifting to grab a warm cloth and help you get comfortable. His movements were delicate, almost reverent, as he wiped you down and pulled the blankets over both of you.

You watched him in the dim light—shirtless, quiet, focused—and felt your heart swell.

Once everything was settled, he crawled back beside you and tucked you into his chest, one arm wrapped tightly around your shoulders.

You could feel him still breathing a little fast, and when you looked up, he was already watching you.

“What?” you whispered, smiling.

He shook his head. “Just… can’t believe this is real.”

You rested your head against his chest, listening to the rhythm of his heart as it slowly calmed.

“It’s real,” you whispered. “We’re real.”

And in that warmth, in that quiet tangle of limbs and safety, Choso held you like he never wanted to be anywhere else again.

Later, when the room had settled into silence and your skin had cooled beneath the sheets, Choso pulled the blanket higher around you and brushed a soft kiss to your temple.

You turned to face him, your limbs still tangled with his, and gave him a quiet smile.

He smiled back — small, tired, but real. The kind of smile that didn’t need to prove anything.

After a long pause, you said it, barely above a whisper: “I think I’ve felt this for a while.”

Choso looked at you for a beat, then nodded. “Me too.”

There wasn’t some grand declaration, no dramatic pause — just truth exchanged in the dark.

And it was enough.

#choso kamo #choso #choso smut #smut #jjk #jujutsu kaisen smut #choso x reader #choso fic

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fluentfridays · 1 month ago

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Prompt #15

What is your favorite joke in your native language/language you are learning?

#fluentfridays #fluent fridays #Fluent Fridays #FluentFridays #language learning #languagelearning #cultural appreciation #CulturalAppreciation #language #world cultures #esl #prompt #writing prompt #comedy #jokes #prompt 15

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meiguicha · 28 days ago

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Breaking - University student so down horrible divine intervention is needed

Phainon x Reader - Uni AU

In the middle of the night and desperation, Phainon prays to any god that will take his plea to help him get closer to his neighbour and crush.

Masterlist - Next

“If there is anyone who can hear, anyone who can help me, please–”

Through heavy curtains and wide windows, maybe if he had been placed in a better room, Phainon would’ve been able to say that the moonlight was giving this fixation of his some much needed light.

Campus crushes are meant to stay campus crushes, not turn into infatuations that last for months and months on end. Then you went back for the end of year break and he thought, maybe, just maybe what feelings he had would die on its own—

—And a week later he’s back home dreaming about what it would be like to hold your hand while you bitch about the cafeteria food. It only got worse from there, how he’d impress your parents, the ring he’ll give you, what names your children will have, which schools they’d go to, the house the both of you will live in when you’re old and wrinkly.

Only a novice would daydream about the simple things, Phainon wants it all. Kissing? Hugging? Walking you back from lectures? The only thing he hasn’t thought about is how he’ll tell your grandchildren how you met.

He’s thought too much about this, dedicated so much brain space to the delusion of being with you that now that the semester has started anew and he sees you wandering around campus ground, he physically feels ill.

There was an opportunity given to him when the first floor meeting started and everyone had the chance to meet their neighbours, but then he got sucked into a conversation and all he could do was watch in futile, as you left the room switching between your native language and English.

Were you fluent enough to teach your children the ones you know? Maybe he’ll try to pick it up one of these days.

Phainon wouldn’t particularly say he’s religious, or superstitious. The only outside force he believes in would be the acts of other humans, but if only six months gets him three instances of running into you, he’s willing to beg any being, divine or not, for the chance to talk to you again.

The carpet is rough against his forehead, but he repeatedly bows and begs and pleads, “Please give me a chance to talk to (y/n) again.”

“Anything, I’ll do anything to talk to her.” Quietly, he mutters under his breath as he hears doors outside slam close.

His knees hurt a little bit, skin digging into the carpet as the air-conditioning blew a light breeze over him. He can’t hear anything now, the revelry from earlier having seemingly died as easily as his hope. His upstairs neighbour paces and something clatters onto the ground, someone scurries across the courtyard downstairs and nothing is happening.

Someone knocks, a quick rap of knuckles hitting wood twice before silence settles once more. Then, they knock again, more hesitant, knuckles lingering against the wood. Scrambling to his feet, he rushes to the door to peek through the peephole, his whole frame pressed against it to look.

It isn’t, of course it isn’t. All he finds is empty carpet and white walls, it’s not even his door that the knocking is coming from, more like his neighbour’s.

With a heavy sigh and heart, he drags himself back to bed and flops onto rumpled sheets and a too-soft pillow. Well, he can’t say he didn’t give it a try. At the very least he can think about how he’s going to start timing his laundry runs so he can run into you at the laundry room. Fridays,he needs to start leaving his room around lunch time on Fridays if he wants to run into you.

Tonight, he dreams of what he’ll tell you when he sees you again. He’d run into you in the hallways and he'd keep the elevator doors open for you, as anyone would, your nails would be painted that pretty red again and you’d type your social media handle into his phone. And maybe you’d offer to walk with him until you have to leave for your class.

Well, he thinks you asked him to, it's a little hard to hear when the moment you opened your mouth, his alarm started blaring out. Though, that is way better than the surprise that awaited him when he wakes up to the sun streaming in through the window and his blanket half thrown off the bed. Yes, anything would have been better than waking up and realising that he doesn’t have thumbs anymore, or the ability to even stand up straight!

In an uncoordinated mess of limbs and tail, Phainon flings off the bed and attempts to turn off his alarm but paws don’t particularly have the facilities for small button pushing. It takes him minutes just to shut it off, nudging with paw pads and claws until it finally quiets down.

Rushing to the mirror in his room, all he sees reflected back at him is not a human in shorts and an old t-shirt, but a large, white fluffy dog staring back at him. His (???) ears twitch at the revelation, and no matter what he does, all gets back is a smiley expression beady dark eyes blinking in what he hopes is his pure and utter confusion.

This isn’t what he meant when he said he wanted to talk to you again!! He can’t even talk!

Is he meant to get adopted by you? Pets aren’t even allowed in the dorm!

Well, if he’s going to a dog for the rest of his life, being your dog doesn’t sound too bad…

It takes an embarrassingly long amount of time for him to figure out that he isn’t going to be drinking from sinks or gnawing on bones for the rest of his life. But the horrifying revelation that changing forms doesn’t mean his clothes change with him was probably a little worse.

Safe to say, his prayer has definitely not been answered. Instead, he gets traumatised and now he’s late for his morning lecture.

Which also means that he doesn’t get to have his meet cute with you in the elevator, forced to run out onto campus with nothing but more daydreams to keep his hopes up.

The summer sun sears onto his skin, bright rays of light filtering through leaves as a few wandering students pass him by. In the distance, he spots a familiar messenger bag with a few clacking charms attached to it. You’re walking with that hastened pace as usual, head bobbing along to whatever song is playing in your earphones as you alternate between glancing at your phone and the path ahead of you.

He wants to catch up to you, maybe point out the plush dog keychain bouncing with your step or compliment the pearl earrings framing your face, yet for some reason he can’t bring himself to approach you. So he settles for trailing a few steps behind, like a stalker, which is definitely what Mydei would say. Castorice would say he’s just walking extremely close behind. Which is still stalking but he doesn’t have the time to debate the creepiness of the situation.

While stewing in his despair once more, Phainon notices the way you perk up, your fingers moving to turn off your phone before he suddenly gets a glance of your awestruck expression, eyes glittering with longing as they follow along something he can’t quite see. Even your steps grow slower, as if you’re trying to catch someone’s attention.

Is there someone else? Did he actually lose his chance before he even got it?

The thought of it sours in his chest. He’s never been one to butt in where he’s not needed but, these feelings you can only spur inside of him, crash against every rational thought he’s ever had the pleasure of knowing.

Frantically, he tries to follow your gazing path but can’t quite seem to figure out who you’re looking at. Your eyes shift again, lower this time and even as you continue forward, your gaze still lingers until you must physically turn your head to keep looking.

‘Little boy.’ He can vaguely make out what you mouth. You mouth it out again, eyes crinkled in joy as a wide smile pulls at your lips. ‘Little boy.’

He looks again, and walking along the brick path is a woman on her morning walk, holding a bright blue leash of a large labrador walking in pace. And as your paths separate ever the more, you return to your usual walking pace, a slightly bouncier pep in your step as your keychains collide into each other a little more.

A thought pops into his mind, one perhaps only fueled by how beautiful delight presents itself on your face.

This is an opportunity that only he has. If whoever has granted him this ‘blessing’ as a response to his prayer, then so be it.

If winning your heart means getting pets and being called a good boy, as long as you give him that joyous expression and cooing voice, nothing is off the table.

#honkai star rail #hsr #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #x reader #hsr phainon #phainon #phainon x reader

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jtl-fics · 2 years ago

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Fluent Freshman - Part 34

Sometimes when you have bad anxiety it’s hard to judge how scary something actually is.

FF breaks into a cold sweat practicing his order in line at fast food places. FF shakes with nerves at the prospect of asking about where a certain building was on campus from a stranger. FF’s stomach twisted into knots when he thought Andrew was leading him to his death in the basement of Eden’s. It’s hard when everything in life feels like the scariest and most impossible thing you’ll ever have to deal with.

Still, FF had felt like he had been getting braver. Had felt like he might be getting just a bit better in regard to confronting his fears.

He’d been getting better.

He managed to laugh with the cashier when he ordered combo number two-teen instead of twelve before break. He had asked for directions to the nearest bathroom from a stranger when one of Kevin’s shakes had gone straight through him. He had even gone down into the basement with Andrew and realized he had friends.

Looking at Daniel makes that progress feel far away.

His stepbrother’s name tastes like ash in his mouth.

“I just want to talk.” Daniel says raising his hands up placatingly. “We’re family.” Daniel says pointing between himself and FF.

“We’re not family and I don’t want to talk.” FF says because they aren’t, and he doesn’t. Daniel is one of the top two people in the entire world he doesn’t want to talk to ever.

“There’s your answer, now leave.” Captain Neil dismisses Daniel who still has his hands up.

“C’mon talk to me. We’re brothers John.” Daniel says and FF feels his entire body tense at the name.

“John?” Nicky looks back at him in confusion.

“That’s not my name.” FF hears himself say more than he consciously says it. “It was never my name.” he swallows tart cherry flavored bile. It really was one of Kevin’s better smoothies and FF would feel terrible if he puked it up. The world sways as he tries to breathe through the nausea of hearing Daniel call him by that name again.

He changed it the second he turned 18 last March. He’d signed his contract as a Smith not a Stanton. He would never let someone take it from him again even if hearing his first name still made his heart ache.

He feels Kevin’s hand on the center of his back steadying him and maybe he is swaying and not the world. Kevin takes the smoothie out of his hands before he can drop it.

Nicky must see something too because his friend abandoned the front line to steady him with an arm around his shoulders. He thinks he sees Captain Neil take his place.

“Of course, it was! It’s the name our dad gave you.” Daniel says and FF’s stomach cramps at the thought. “He’s still hurt that you changed it and that you haven’t reached out. Do you know what it’s like to find out your brother was hurt during a press conference?” Daniel asks and FF can see how he’s going for the sympathy card here looking at the others.

It’s his usual tactic.

“Fred is not my dad. You, Lucas, and Greg are not my brothers.” FF can feel a headache coming on along with the stomach cramps. He wishes that Aaron had let him restock on Pepto because the tart cherries maybe aren’t the best thing at the moment.

Daniel has always been the worst part of his stepfamily.

Greg had been a physical bully. Lucas had always followed Greg’s lead. Fred hadn’t looked at him more than he had to from the very moment that FF had made it clear that he did not appreciate the 13th birthday gift of ‘a new name’ and still intended to spend time with his grandmother. His mother had been distant for ages, but he always felt her watchful gaze making sure he did not step out of line, did not give her an excuse to put him back on the medication that left him as a zombie.

Daniel was different.

Daniel wanted things to be a certain way, but he wasn’t like his father or his brothers. He didn’t force FF to change, didn’t bully him into accepting a name that he had never wanted, and never let on to the fact that he was watching.

They’re the same age. Daniel had come to him like he could be a friend something he had been in short supply of after his two years of being little more than a medicated zombie. Daniel had gotten close; Daniel had pretended to actually care and acted like he only wanted what was best for FF.

It might have even worked.

If FF wasn’t such a loyal grandson.

Daniel had tried to poison the well between him and Gran, had tried to tell him that he needed to leave her behind and be happy in his new family.

FF had been stalwart.

Then Daniel had gone after his Gran and FF dislocated his thumb punching him.

“You don’t touch her.” He had said seeing Daniel for what he was for the first time. He saw a monster where a friend used to be but he had told this monster all of his secrets, all of his weaknesses, and had given him ammo.

Daniel came off as sweet and caring. He was athletic. He was a good friend. He was smart.

He was just also evil and made sure that FF suffered every single day they lived together because FF saw that evil in him when no one else had.

More than anything FF had been happy to bid him farewell when he’d signed his legal name on the contract to Palmetto State University’s Exy Team.

Just the sight of him brought up bad memories.

“No brother here to talk to it seems.” Captain Neil says.

“Bye Daniel. Kevin and Aaron, you two can walk back.” Andrew says and FF feels hands on his shoulders and found himself being steered towards the Maserati and FF stiffened instantly at the sight of it. “Smith?” Andrew questions.

FF had been doing better.

Screaming and pointing.

A hand reaching.

A sharp swerve.

Blood in his eyes and smoke in his lungs.

“I’m scared.”

Tiny hands in his.

“It’s going to be okay; I promise.”

Waking up to his grandma holding his hand in the hospital.

He’d been getting better.

“See, you’re still upset over what that guy did. Why are you clinging to the last name of the guy that did this to you?” Daniel asks from behind him, “He almost killed mom and you. He did kill our two-“

“Stop.” FF hears himself say and he turns to Daniel. “Jay and Robin weren’t your little siblings, they were mine. I’m not your family, I never was and never will be. I’m not scared of cars anymore.” A lie mixed in with multiple truths.

Maybe it’ll make Daniel happy to see that FF still knows how to play all of his favorite games.

He turns to Andrew who is staring at him patiently, “I’m not feeling well.” He says.

Andrew looks at him and FF figures he probably looks as shitty as he feels, “Someone will have to sit on someone’s lap.” He says.

“Smithy, sit on my lap.” Nicky says and FF can’t help the way he leans into Nicky’s warmth as his friend guides him to around the car keeping himself between Daniel and FF. Nicky gets in first and FF doesn’t hesitate to crawl onto Nicky’s lap.

He thinks he hears Daniel start to say something, but Andrew slams the door shut on his way to the driver’s side. Andrew doesn’t move from the passenger door, blocking it with his body.

Nicky guides his face into his neck, “Can we buckle-up?” he asks, and Nicky almost dislodges him he’s so quick in his compliance.

“Of course.” Nicky says and there’s the feeling of the seatbelt and the click of it locking into place. Nicky’s hand was in his hair.

FF doesn’t know if it just took a while or if he was just drifting in his thoughts as Nicky stroked his hair. “Are you scared of cars?” he asks voice quiet.

“Yes.” FF answers because it’s Nicky. “I was in an accident.” He explains just as quietly as Nicky had asked.

“Siblings?” Nicky asks voice choking with emotion.

FF pressed his face into Nicky’s neck further and hopes the pressure will stop his eyes from watering. “Yes.” He says. “Younger.” He manages.

Nicky holds him tighter, and FF is glad Nicky doesn’t tell him it’ll be okay.

FF doesn’t know if he drifts or if the others are listening to Daniel’s poison and falling for it. He’s glad that at least he’ll still have Nicky.

Eventually, the doors open, and he thinks he hears Daniel’s voice, but all three doors shut quickly.

“What an asshole.” Aaron spits.

“That doesn’t necessarily disqualify him.” Kevin says.

“We’re not talking about this right now.” Captain Neil hisses, “Smith, we’re going to get you to Abby’s, okay?” he says but FF doesn’t really have the energy to do anything more than a thumbs up.

The car ride is smoother than usual. It’s also quiet other than Kevin reminding him that he’d sleep better if they’d stop by the store to grab more smoothie supplies, Aaron smacking him upside the head, and Andrew threatening to kill both of them if they got tart cherry and avocado smoothie on his interior.

By the time they’re at Abby’s FF is almost asleep in Nicky’s lap but he forces himself to wake up and climb out of the car when Andrew opens the passenger door for them. He finds it hard to look at any of them at the moment.

“Sorry about all of that.” He manages looking down at his feet. “You shouldn’t have had to see that.”

“Smith,” Captain Neil’s hand rests on his shoulder and FF startles slightly as he looks down into the blue eyes of his Captain, “if we got what we deserved, we wouldn’t be Foxes.” He says as FF takes a long and steadying breath. “You have a past and that’s what brought you here.” Captain Neil squeezes his shoulder.

“You’re one of us and we take care of our own.” Andrew says before pushing him towards Nicky, “Get him to bed.” He says.

Nicky didn’t need to be told twice. Abby and Grandma Smith were out checking out a restaurant after the game, the two having become good friends during their stay. FF was glad his Gran was somewhere else and didn’t have to see him like this. FF was even more glad for his friend’s help as Nicky dragged him through his bedtime routine. “Don’t expect this when we’re roomies.” Nicky teased as he helped FF change.

It was hardly five minutes between pulling up and Nicky tucking FF into bed. “We’ll be by tomorrow, call me if that asshole shows up, okay?” Nicky says pointing at him.

FF, still to tired, just gave a thumbs up and closed his eyes.

He just hoped he drank enough of the smoothie that he wouldn’t dream.

***

Nicky left Abby’s house and made sure to lock the door behind him after he had checked a grand total of three times that FF was asleep in the guest bedroom, he’d taken up residency in.

Siblings.

Nicky’s heart ached.

He found the rest of the Monsters loitering outside by the Maserati with Aaron pacing, Kevin wiping his tongue on his shirt, as Andrew and Neil sat on the hood sharing a cigarette.

“He’s asleep?” Andrew asks.

“Out like a light.” He looks over to Kevin, “What’s going on with Kevin?” he asks.

“He tried some of what was left of the Smoothie he gave to Smith.” Neil says with an amused laugh. “He didn’t like it.” He says.

“I’ve been aiming for nutritional, not delicious.” Kevin argues, “Smiths hasn’t complained.”

“Smith is a little too nice for his own good.” Aaron rolls his eyes, “Which is why we’re not letting that asshole get his way!” Aaron adds.

“Being an asshole doesn’t stop you from being good at Exy.” Kevin crosses his arms.

“Obviously!” Aaron returns gesturing at Neil, Andrew, and Kevin.

“I resent that.” Kevin and Neil said at the same time as Andrew just shrugged.

“Hey, what the hell are you guys talking about?” Nicky asks hating feeling locked out of the loop. He didn’t regret climbing in the car to hold FF but there’d been too much time between when he’d sat in the Maserati to when the rest had joined for there to have not been a conversation.

“You didn’t hear?” Aaron asks incredulous.

“I was busy.” Nicky hisses and at least Aaron has the good grace to blush.

“Daniel Stanton wants to try out for the open spot on our roster since Lisa decided to stay home.” Neil says through gritted teeth, “The University already approved that he can try out.” He adds.

“That asshole wants to be a Fox.” Andrew says.

There were many noise disturbance calls from the usually quiet neighborhood that night as Nicky Hemmick let his opinion on this be known to the world.

MASTERPOST FOR ALL PARTS OF FLUENT FRESHMAN AU

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devinescribe · 20 days ago

Text

After School Project

[Damian Wayne x Reader]

So... school age[16] year old Damian is like... the most thirsted over guy in school. And here we have a neurodivergent reader who catches his attention. Before anyone comes for me I'm also neurodivergent:3 so yeah. Also, there's nothing wrong with being neurodivergent or acting differently than other neurodivergent people:3 enjoyyy

Arabic Translations(I'm not fluent google and apple translate helping me😭)

Ya Rayyal : oh man

Min sijak : are you serious?

Yallah : hurry/come on

'ant qublat eazima : you’re a great kisser

Damian Wayne was everything every girl in school wanted. Rich, hot, incredibly strong? Yeah, they were all swooning, head over heels for the young vigilante.

Except for you. I mean… at least you didn’t think you liked him in that way.

You were generally a nervous person, so for your heart to race a bit faster when he was around, or for your cheeks to flush when he spoke to you or complimented your intelligence was normal right? Wasn’t it like… just what happened to everyone?

He was just a guy. What you found more interesting was the subtle competition you two had going with each other in class. Well, he didn't even know about it, but you kept track of how many questions you both answered. He would smirk at you and made it a habit because he knew you two would be the only ones answering questions. It made your heart do flips, and your stomach do somersaults.

He was incredibly smart, which made you sigh in relief when you were paired up with him for the partner project.

You heard some girl behind you whine and whisper about how you didn't deserve to have Damian as your partner. You rolled your eyes, you weren’t great at detecting tone, but you could tell they were actually upset about this. Taking a deep breath and turning around, you were about to respond before Damian stood up, standing by your desk and speaking for you. It made you pout. You could defend yourself.

"Don't act like I'm your fucking boyfriend. At least she's smart and can get through a presentation without giggling every five seconds. Acting ditzy is the stupidest shit... but then again I don't think you're acting."

You blushed and snickered as he defended you. It was kind of nice to not have to defend yourself, even if you were just pouting over it.

The project was a simple poetry project. At least to everyone else it was. You had been published for your poetry before, so this, to you, was not just a small project, but something to have to prove yourself through.

"...Would you like to only work on this in class, study blocks, or after school in a neutral place? Of course you can suggest any other place you'd want to do it or any time, I'm kind open to just about anything-" you blabbered, not looking at Damian, sort of spacing out as you spoke.

He smirked, "How about my place? Alfred can just pick us both up. Y'know, if you're up for it."

You thought about it for a moment. This was less likely to interrupt your daily routine, it was an addition to it, which was easy to schedule around.

Which he had already thought of, which is why he suggested it. He also knew that you burnt out when waiting to meet up, which is why he suggested tonight instead of another day. It was a Friday.

"How long will I be there?" You mumbled aloud to yourself, not really expecting an answer.

"Oh my brothers and dad will not let you leave quickly. And Alfred will not let you leave before he feeds you... might as well stay over. We have plenty of spare rooms," he joked.

You look confused.

"I do not think it is appropriate for me to intrude on your family's home for such a long time. It would also not be appropriate for me to stay in your house overnight as-"

...

He stared, forgetting you took everything too seriously. Yeah, that's right, he noticed. He was a Robin after all! He wouldn't be a good detective if he wasn't observant.

"Hey. I was joking," he said quietly. Not rudely, even if there was a bit of an edge that he usually spoke with.

You blushed and tilted your head down.

"Oh. Um... sorry," you whispered, looking at the paper the teacher had just given out.

"The topic we have to write our poems about... is love?" You said, staring the paper down like you could change the words printed in ink.

"Ya rayyal...Min sijak?" He muttered under his breath in Arabic.

——

After school, you stood about two feet from Damian, personal bubbles were serious, waiting to head to his house after school.

His older brother, Tim, who was about two years older, came over to you both.

"Oh? Dami, bringing home a girl? Oh Dick is gonna love this," the boy snickered, teasing his younger brother.

You stared blankly.

"If you are implying I am going to 'make a pass' at Damian, you are mistaken. And if you are implying he would try something, I'd like to make you aware I refuse to be anywhere that people wouldn't be in the house. We are simply paired for a school project," you said, staring at the space behind Tim, but not at him.

He stared.

"So... no. Not what I was implying but... good to know... and good to know you're autistic."

...

"Tim what the fuck-"

"Game recognizes game. Chill. Still, Dick is gonna love this."

"Don't tell Grayson a word-"

...

"Too late."

——

The ride to the Wayne manor is chaotic as the two boys fight amongst themselves. Cuss words in both English and Arabic fly through the air.

Soon, the limousine pulls into the driveway and you are eager to get the hell out of that car. You stand outside, staring at the huge manor in front of you.

It was beautiful, the windows and architecture giving you a vintage feel, but you could guess the inside probably didn't match the outside.

Tim and Damian are still bickering as Alfred leads you inside, both boys trailing behind.

“The house looks lovely…” you whisper to yourself.

Alfred responds, “Why thank you Miss L/N. I assure you both Master Bruce and I take that compliment in high regard.”

You gave a shy smile, “Call me Y/N please…”

When you walk in, the first thing you notice is a big Doberman on the couch, and two boys, obviously older than you, one by maybe three to five years, and the other by a maybe 6.

"Ohhhh this is so great Dickie, look he really did bring home a girl," laughs the one with a white streak in his hair.

"Oh my god, you're so cute! You have great taste Dami. Not in a weird way y'know. So how'd you meet?" Dick rambles.

"We are not dating."

"Fuck off Grayson."

The phrases are said at the same time, making the three other boys laugh.

"So, what's your name?" Tim asks, suddenly realizing he had never asked through the whole ride, too busy arguing with Damian about what he had said, as Damian sits to pet the dog. His dog.

"Uhm... Y/N..." you mumble, looking down.

"Well, I'm Dick, and that's Jason. We're Dami's older brothers," Dick smiled, obviously very friendly.

"How old are you even?" Jason asked, leaning back, trying to guess. He could not care less, but any time he could tease Damian was a good time.

"16..."

The boys nodded. You felt a little uncomfortable, not because of them, but just the new situation. The dog, who had been laying peacefully with Damian, came over to you, and whined, placing a paw on your leg.

You smile brightly and kneel down, petting the dog.

"Oh wowww... Damian, you... you're letting her just... pet Titus?" Tim teases.

"Shut the hell up."

——

After the chaos, you and Damian sat in the living room working on the project. The project was as follows:

Each student is paired up with one other person. Each student must write their own poem with the topic given to them by the instructor.

After each student has written their poem, they must make on poem together. The poems can be in any style.

You groan and crumple up another piece of paper, throwing it in the recycling.

"You good?" Damian asked, looking up from his blank paper.

You shook your head.

"You struggling with this?"

You nodded.

"You going nonverbal?"

You nodded again.

"Let's go get a snack."

You followed the boy through the hall to the kitchen. He looked through some stuff before realizing, he didn't know what you liked at all. He grabbed the small whiteboard off the fridge, and gave it to you.

"If you're gonna be nonverbal, we still need a way to communicate. This okay with you?" He asked, handing you a new expo marker.

You nodded.

"What do you want as a snack? Or a drink?" He asked, showing you the cabinets and fridge.

You scribbled down for a moment.

'May the I please just have a water. I'm not too hungry. Plus I don't want to take snacks that were not purchased for me if that makes sense.'

Damian scoffed.

"I don't give a damn. Are you hungry, yes or no?" He asked, annoyed.

You began to write more excuses about how you felt bad, when he put a glass of water and a pack of mini Oreos in front of you.

His eyes said 'eat it or perish.'

"Yallah yallah, we got a project to finish," he ushered, taking his own snacks back to the living room.

You followed closely.

"I like when you say things in Arabic."

The sentence was so quiet, he wouldn't have heard it if he wasn't a Robin with a trained ear.

"Thanks..." he mumbled before adding, "Want to tell me why you went nonverbal? Just... like if it's my behavior or something... I can fix it?"

That made you blush. He actually cared about what you thought? He actually wanted to know if he was making you uncomfortable? He wanted to change his behavior if it did? What was this feeling…

You shake your head, sitting with your snack and drink, "Wasn't you. It's the assignment."

He looked at you in confusion.

"You're a great poet what on-"

"But I've never... experienced love... how... do I write about it if I’ve never even been kissed?" you mumbled.

"But all your poems are about love aren't they?" Damian asked, knowing you had shared your poetry in class before.

"Well... yes and no? I... I write about... what I think it would feel like... but I mostly write about how empty hearted I feel knowing I probably won't have my first kiss or anything before 18 like everyone else.... Everyone is falling in love and I'm falling behind..." you explain, looking at him for the first time.

Your e/c eyes meet his emerald eyes, and he's shocked.... In a good way.

"Guess we're falling behind together then," he shrugged, laying across the sofa, his head resting on Titus's back.

"Oh please every girl wants you you don't get it-"

"Every girl except the most interesting and smartest one. She doesn't," he said sighing.

“Okay that’s one person. I’ve never been liked by anyone, any guy I’ve liked never likes me back. No one has ever liked me… maybe they have but just… not like that,” you whispered, looking away.

“Well you’re wrong. You’re looking at him right now,” he said, rolling his eyes.

You tilt your head and look at him, confusion written all over your face.

Suddenly a wicked idea came into Damian's head.

"Well... why don't you fake kiss me? Then you can see what it feels like," Damian said with a sly grin.

"...Fake kissing? How do you fake a kiss?" You question, rolling your eyes. "Plus if it's fake then... it doesn't really get the love aspect in does it? It's just a physical thing that makes-"

You're cut off by a kiss on your lips, your eyes widening.

Although... you don't mind it. You kiss back hesitantly.

Then he pulls away and grins at you like... like that was his plan all along.

" 'Ant qublat eazima,” he mutters.

And now this man, who just so rudely cut your train of thought off (yes that is what you were most upset about) with a kiss, who has been insisting to his brothers he didn’t like you in that way, was blushing.

He had the nerve to blush after that.

“I…you…” you were strapped for words, unable to create a single thought.

“Um… in case that didn’t make it obvious… I like you. You’re pretty, you’re smart… you don’t treat me different because of who I am… and… and I guess you said you also like when I spoke Arabic which is a plus for me in any case-“

And you decided to have your revenge.

You pressed a kiss to his lips, shutting him up. It was quick, more like a peck, but it did shut him up.

“I was wondering what the feelings I had were…” you say with a blush, looking away.

“Well… now we can go back to writing our poetry… and now you have a point of reference… of course you can always ask for more inspiration-“ he smirked.

“Damian Al’Ghul,” you hissed, using his other last name.

He straightened up and nodded wordlessly.

“That was hot… I-i mean yeah Uhuh sorry.”

You sigh softly and shake your head with a smile, “You’re silly, Damian… and it case what I did wasn’t obvious… I like you too…”

#×reader #fluff #mwuah #batboys #batfam #damian wayne #damian wayne x reader #damian al ghul #he’s so silly #Jason and dick being the ultimate big brothers in this

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sydneymykah · 5 months ago

Text

BEYONCE THE MESSENGER?

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ Astrology & Numerology ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

𝐖𝐇𝐘 𝐈𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐘𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐋𝐔𝐁𝐌𝐒 𝐎𝐍 𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝟐𝟗𝐭𝐡?

ACT I: Renaissance - July 29th

ACT II: Cowboy Carter - March 29th

Act III: ____ - ____ 29th?

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

★ Beyonce is a spiritual woman. She makes it very apparent in her lyrics and her visuals. She’s a believer in astrology, religion, the occult and spirituality. Beyonce is also an intentional woman. So I find it to be no coincidence that those reasons are behind why she decided to release her three act projects all on the 29th of specific months. Both on Fridays.

“Cuz I’m a clever girl” - Beyoncé

𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐲 - 𝐕𝐞𝐧𝐮𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐲

★ 𝐑𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐚��𝐢𝐧𝐠 on Friday is nothing new in the modern days of music. In fact Beyonce pioneered it and made it an industry standard when she dropped her self titled album with little to no announcement. With visuals to back it. Making Friday, the day of Venus, the day she drops albums feels alined. Especially with these three act projects. She could’ve easily picked any day as we’ve seen with artists like Tyler the creator who dropped his recent album on a Monday morning despite the new norm.

★ 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐲 is ruled by Venus which coincidentally so is Beyonce. Venus rules many things involving beauty, love and the arts. Her choice to release what will probably be her most studied albums next to lemonade on the day of Venus feels like beautiful poetry. Since self titled Beyonce has put artistry over hits. (Although 4 laid the foundation) Artistic vision over charts. Visuals and story telling over gimmicks. In 2013 she said in her documentary life is but a dream, “People don’t make albums anymore”. Ever since then she’s been putting all her passion and love into these projects. Choosing Friday to release her albums and then that choice becoming the norm can show not only her impact but how shes become all about the art.

★ 𝐕𝐞𝐧𝐮𝐬 the goddess, who Beyonce has also channeled, was worshiped for her beauty and eroticism but also for victory when she brought victory to the Romans. Beyonce invokes victory when she uses her platform and status to get what she wants. Specifically as an artist she wants people to pay more attention to black music history and the importance of black artists. To many, whether in the industry or not, Beyonce is seen like a hero. Especially to black woman. Her victories feel like ours. Beyonce credits black artists who were/are overlooked and uplifts the new upcoming ones. When she wins awards and breaks records with these songs/projects we too win with her.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝟐𝟗𝐭𝐡

𝐈𝐧 𝐧𝐮𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐲 𝟐𝟗 𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝟏𝟏.

11 in numerology:

★ 𝟏𝟏 in numerology can be perceived like yin and yang. The masculine and feminine, the active and passive. Both exist next to each other. One and One. Balance. Which can be representative of what Beyonce wants out of these albums. To set things right. “We’ll be the ones to purify our father’s sins”. 11 can be referred to as the physic master. Jesus being the example for his name adds up to 11. Being the messenger of god. Beyonce is a religious woman so it’s no stretch to think she believes she should be a messenger of god as well. She sees the future she wants with these albums. She has even referred to herself as “Beysus” just saying lol. 11 being the numerology behind the day she releases these specific projects her message is to educate the masses on the black history of certain genres of music. These albums existing being the message she wants to put out.

★ 𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 with 2 and 9 being what makes 11 here it’s stated that 2 is peace and fluent speaker. 9 being humanity and brotherly love. This three act project is meant to represent all of these things. Beyoncés using her voice and other peoples voices to send a personal message. Beyoncés own personal journey of finding peace. Humanity being talked about specifically racism, discrimination, and misogyny. Brotherly love being exuded in these projects through collaboration and the merging of genres.

Numerology pdf ;)

11 in tarot:

The Justice Card

★ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 Justice card. Being the symbol of truth and representing justice, fairness, and showing us the outcome of certain actions. The time of judgement. Beyoncé’s Act one and two share a similarity. The reclaiming of a genre(s) that originated with Black/African Americans. Renaissance being house music and Cowboy Carter being country. It feels extremely intentional that this date, the 29th, was chosen for this exact reason. Beyonce is, if you will, bringing justice to the black voices that were snubbed and silenced out of their own genres. She’s placing judgment on the music industry who has upheld ostracizing, discriminating, and casting aside black artists in these said genres.

11 in astrology:

★ 𝐀𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐮𝐬 is the 11th sign in the Zodiac. Ruled by Uranus this air sign is known to be UNIQUE. Futuristic, ahead of its time, innovative, a bit more free thinking than others and carries humanitarian traits. Aquarius tends to care a lot about the environment around them especially their community. This is why the 11H is the house of friendship, networking, and social groups. The topics of the first two acts aim to show the possibilities of being a genreless artist, finding community and giving back to communities. Uranus is a planet that rules the future. The interesting thing about this to me is the best way to predict the future is to know the past and to be aware of the present. When it comes to Beyoncés 3 ACT project they all aim to be innovative. (We don’t have act three yet but that’s a clear pattern) Not just sonically but lyrically as well. Knowing the past of these genres, how they’re being treated in the present and shining a light on them, hoping for a better(more just) future. It’s crazy to see how quickly these predictions/observations have come true. We hear Beyonce say lines like “Wildfire burnt his house down, insurance ain’t gon pay no Fannie Mae,” and we’ve seen the fires in LA and how insurance companies have treated the victims. Beyond this Beyoncé’s purpose of these albums in my opinion is to show the potential future of music, specifically music that black people have been shut out of. With the hopes more black artists feel the freedom and liberation to be in any genre they want to participate in. I mentioned Aquarius being a bit more free thinking than others. At the Renaissance tour the interlude right before I’m that Girl had a line that is looped repeatedly: “Be free”. And quotes like, “whoever controls the media controls the mind”, and “Imagination is more important than knowledge”. Using symbolism like hive mind, the news and robots to show her audience to free themselves of the box society puts them in. The box society and the music industry has tried to put her in.

Overall:

★ 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞’𝐬 definitely a clear pattern as to why Friday the 29th was chosen to be the date these albums are being released. The artistic integrity, the feeling of victory when a new album is released and the unsung voices of the past get the chance to be seen and heard. Beyonce places herself as the messenger, the mastermind, the judge. The one with the sword and the one with the light. Passing judgment to the music industry who has treated her and other black artists of the past with blatant disregard after years of being discredited. She does this whilst also uplifting the new artists, the artists of the future. To be innovate, think outside the box, and to be free.

There’s more to add here considering the specific months these albums were released and the astrology behind the number 29 more. So stayed tuned, there might be a Pt. 2

xoxo

- Sydney Mykah ✫彡

#sydney mykah #music #music blog #astrology #Beyonce #renaissance #cowboy carter #numerology #numerology 11 #Uranus #Aquarius #11th house

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