#While some people can imitate other genders very well

[the-busy-ghost]

Accents are always a difficult thing to manage in audiobook production but I seriously have to question the sense of the person who got a ‘full cast’ of American actors to narrate a novel set in England, especially since the main narrator has a perfectly English accent so it doesn’t match up. 

Most of the cast aren’t too bad- the girls in particular are believable- but some of the younger voices sound like they’re dubbing a Japanese anime and one man in particular, supposed to be an Englishman (I think), unfortunately just reminds me of Kermit the Frog

[capslocked]

KINKVEMBER DAY: 8

[prompt: phone sex]

male reader x shin ryujin

16k words

The phone rings one too many times, and Ryujin is in the middle of scrunching up the paper slip that Chaeryeong handed her earlier that afternoon when she hears your voice.

The sounds of her scrambling for the receiver and her head smacking against the headboard come through in pretty good quality.

That never gets old.

"Stimulating conversations," you offer smoothly, like it isn't a euphemism and instead some high-brow intellectual pursuit. "How can I help you?"

Ryujin is speechless for an unbearable five, ten seconds until she lets out the kind of low chuckle that probably sounds better than it looks. "Hi," she says, "hello, I, uh- I don't know how all of this works."

"Why don't we start with who you're looking to speak with tonight?" you ask.

Ryujin sighs. She runs a hand through her hair, looking at the messy tangle of clothes on her bedroom floor with mild resentment. She’ll take her chances, figuring a direct approach is the best route when she doesn't really know where any of the lines get drawn or who is allowed to say what and who isn't.

"Um. Okay. Who you got?"

"We have a large variety of operators to suit any taste," you explain kindly. She appreciates that. "Do you have someone specific in mind? A gender perhaps, to start?"

"Well," Ryujin starts, running her tongue along the edges of her teeth. Lia has this thing she constantly says, that there's always a thousand and one reasons not to do something, and Ryujin is the first person to make fun of her for it - but here she is, finally putting that adage to use.

"I was actually calling to, um," she exhales loudly. "A guy? I mean look - girls. Girls are great, but if you - mmm." She clears her throat. Because she knows how she wants to do this, and it's most definitely: "A man."

You wait for a second before replying, and Ryujin allows the stillness to expand over and fill out every corner of her bedroom before a bright, "Alrighty, well," comes filtering out her phone, tinny but as enticing as ever. "That would be me."

"Oh."

"Yeah," you reply, easy and unhurried. You sound exactly like the kind of person whose company people pay handsomely to be around; the professionalism is undeniable, but there's something to be said for your tone. The softness to the vowels, the almost imperceptible upward lilt to the words - Ryujin gets that, maybe.

You're pretty confident in the answer, but you ask anyway, "have you ever done anything like this?"

Ryujin opens her mouth and hesitates for a brief moment.

"Well," she muses. She's tried porn, she's tried her own fantasies, she's tried cranking up the hot water and touching herself with the head of the shower aimed somewhere she's told by other girls: it's there, free of charge. "I haven't."

"But you have a boyfriend," you state. "You have a man, who you enjoy things with?"

Ryujin laughs nervously. "It's...it's been a little while. Not recently. Sorry. I know you don't-"

"No, no, not at all, you're doing fine, it's just that you sound very attractive over the phone. Excuse the assumption."

Ryujin laughs and rakes her fingers through her fringe. She knows it's a line, but she laughs anyway. She could - if she was looking for the deranged fulfillment of it - pore through a billion comments on instagram, on twitter that call her a lot of things: gorgeous, beautiful, hot. The last comment she read before almost deleting her app entirely was someone who decided to textually imitate a dog barking to a picture Yeji had taken of her in a coffee shop. There's a novelty, she thinks, in being charmed by someone who has no idea who she is.

"You have good ears then," she says, smirking into the receiver. "So do you normally do, what, ask questions? I have no idea."

"Yeah, it helps me build a profile," you reply, "but if you had something else in mind-"

"No, please, shoot." She grabs the pillow from behind her back and flops against the mattress, staring up into the ceiling fan.

"Do you feel comfortable sharing your age with me?"

"Twenty," she answers without missing a beat, even though that isn't right. It's weirdly important to her, keeping it private, and she isn't sure why - but then you say something pleasant and complimentary about college and new experiences that she's unable to register, and you ask her for her name so quick she just blurts it out:

"Ryujin."

"Pretty."

"Fuck," Ryujin grins, immediately chewing on her knuckle to bite back a gasp. "Sorry. The name is cute or, whatever. Whatever. Sorry for the curse. God, I don't really have a filter - what about you? Do you have a name, Mr. Operator?"

"I do."

Ryujin lifts a leg up and puts it down again. She doesn't know if she should already have taken off her pajamas or if that's weird. Or if the fact that it doesn't bother her means this is more or less wholesome. She turns over onto her stomach, humming into the phone and now she doesn't know why she's thinking about your face. You could be- well, fuck, you could be anyone, but there's this gnawing compulsion to put something together.

You tell her your name and she scoffs for a second, before quieting down and returning you a, "pretty."

"Ryujin, tell me." There's probably a slightly too long pause from your end of the line before you get on with asking her, "when was your last orgasm?"

She drops the phone right in her face. It bounces off the bridge of her nose before landing in bedsheets beside her and her eyes are welling with tears while she scrambles blindly across her bed, cursing into the receiver and squirming. She pulls the phone to her ear and catches the last couple seconds of you reassuring her that it's okay, that it's completely fine if she's hung up or gone.

"Actually, I have," and she curls her fingers into a fist, "never came in my whole life."

You clear your throat to keep a less than professional sound from coming out. A quiet space she feels necessary to fill: “Not even once.”

"Really?"

"I know. And I've only recently realized that's, uh - er- a pretty un-normal thing." Ryujin makes a waving motion with her hand even though you can't see it, trailing off into silence and blushing furiously. "Sorry," she apologizes. She doesn't know what she’s apologizing for, but she does it again. "Sorry about that."

"I should be the one feeling sorry for you," you rib.

"Fucking tell me about it."

"Hey, this reminds me, would you be averse to the idea of touching yourself?"

The question stutters Ryujin in her tracks, and she doesn't even say no but a drawn-out "nngh" leaks out before she can stumble into something more intelligible. "Isn't that, like, what you're supposed to do on these calls?"

"Every call is different, Ryujin."

She chews on her lower lip, rolling it under her front teeth. You say her name like you know her, and it's throwing her for a loop. The comfort you have with the whole situation - asking her a million questions and not demanding answers, taking cues and reassurances in stride and turning everything into some sort of ploy for getting her naked. Fuck, she'll take a bit of a plunge:

"Should I be touching myself?"

"It's not my place to say."

"Okay, well that's kind of a frustrating answer."

"So you're saying you like being told what to do," you tell her, and you hear the sharp inhale in reply.

"If I knew what I liked, you think I'd be calling a sex hotline and hoping some stranger might take pity on me?"

You laugh out loud, and her response is the quickest, the cutest little, "seriously!" before she chuckles too.

"Ryujin?" you ask.

"Yeah?"

"Are you straight?"

She nearly chokes - because it's like you're able to just read her mind - and if you can do that then there's nothing you can't do, maybe. And here, excitement feels a lot like apprehension. She twists and curls in on herself, thighs rubbing together, the flat of her hand traveling across her stomach.

"I'm-"

"Because no one should have to pretend that they're interested in guys," you interrupt her and, god, for as much time as she's spent dwelling on that, she wishes it were that simple. 

It would be a hell of a lot easier if she knew why she wanted to get her face between Yeji's thighs and drag her tongue all over her clit until that prettier-than-perfect face of hers cinches up in a pleasure that comes with just the right amount of agony - or if she knew why she didn't feel anything like remorse or guilt or envy when her boyfriend came around instead of wanting, you know, to get on her knees with her mouth around his cock too -

Fuck, it's all very complicated.

"Straight," she answers. She likes cock, as much as anyone realistically can, and she knows the body on a man can get her dripping and easy in all the right ways. So, she just swallows. Says, "straight enough."

"If you were to touch yourself, right now, and someone - say, a man - were telling you exactly what to do: what would spring to mind, if anything."

"Mmm. Is this you asking me to touch myself?"

"Again. That's up to you."

Your voice is light. Very pleasant. Very male, Ryujin realizes. She gulps.

"Can you, I mean," she says, running a hand down the length of her thigh, pressing down at the hollow.

"Ryujin,” you say, letting her mull over how it sounds in your mouth. “Take a breath for me, please."

Her exhale leaves her with a heavy push and she tries not to laugh. Nervous tic. She's getting goosebumps, but she feels warmer than before.

"We could say this isn't the first time, you and me, in some very broad and abstract sense. How does that make you feel?"

"Strange." She touches her outer thighs again and arches her back. "Kind of horny," she admits. And it is odd - your words, the things you say - and maybe it's her nerves because the experience is new, and so are you, and so are her feelings, all wrapped in one.

"Do you want to do something about that?"

There's silence between you for what seems like a very long time, your breathing quiet but apparent - a signal you haven't abandoned her in some state of vulnerability. Ryujin inhales deeply. She's shaking in her fingertips. The tension has her taut and waiting, and that's funny, really, because it's what she's been doing for years. The rubbing. The touching.

Her hips rock forward gently and she answers the unasked question with a sweetly husked, "uh-huh."

"What are you wearing?"

"Ah, really?" Ryujin laughs. Her fingers pause at her waistline. "That old, bad porn trope."

"I like hearing about people's clothes, is all," you excuse yourself lightly. "Helps me get a sense of things."

"Yeah, alright. Sweats. Baggy ones." Her lips fall apart. "Shirt."

"Is that all? Nothing sexy."

"What's sexy?"

"Sexy is…"

She listens to you mull it over, listening for a ruffling or two. "For a girl with a nice body - some body - some curves," you continue, and Ryujin has to drop another finger to the hot line of her thigh, her lower belly. "You need lace. Silk. You've gotta leave the best bits a little hidden, at least for a while longer."

"Wow. You sound a hell of a lot like you'd enjoy taking someone's pants off," she half-teases. "Do you make all your calls like this? One sordid fantasy at a time, huh?"

"Something like that," you reply. And then, as if reading her mind, "are you doing anything, right now?"

"I'm touching myself," she exhales. "Are you?"

"Ryujin, not yet. Please be patient."

She makes a face even though you can't see it or taunt her. That's an unfair request - you have an unfair request.

"Just, wait," you tell her. She's drawing lazy, winding circles across her thigh. "Let me show you something, will you do that for me?"

"But, what."

"Tell me everything. All the things you're thinking. Things you want to do."

"Everything?"

"Yes."

She blinks away her initial disbelief and reaches around for her lamp to switch it off. Until it's just the hallway light peeking in through the crack between her door and the door jamb and you, a stranger who won't be seeing her face or hearing her say anything stupid. She shakes out a few more breaths, shuffles against the sheets, and glides her fingertips past her belly button.

Her hand rises up her stomach in one decisive movement, until her fingers curl beneath the bottoms of her bra, trapped in its underwire. "I'm thinking - unh - about, ah. My friend?"

You're quiet and let the silence linger, until she seems like she might not find her way; so you repeat, "Go ahead."

"And a guy she used to like, fuck, she'd show up here, drunk on, ah. A weeknight. Somewhere, fuck, around midnight. Walk past me into the kitchen where we had the - the light. God." Her hips stutter and she grits out the rest through her teeth. "In the refrigerator. Ah, yeah, a midnight snack. Always looked way too fucking good for, um, oh, for a casual booty-call."

"Does your friend have a name?"

"Yuna," she practically pants, and immediately realizes she shouldn't have said that either.

"Did you always know what was going on? Between Yuna and her-"

"Boy-toy, yes - it was so obvious, I always knew, yeah," she said, clumsily grabbing the sheets with one hand as she drifts further between the peaks. "Just - fuck - he'd be picking at, ah, something with chopsticks."

"In your kitchen?"

"My, uh, table. And I'd be working up the nerve to ask."

You sigh over the phone, "ask him what?"

"What it was, like, I knew she was only- shit." She keens high in her throat. "What it was like, fucking taking that cock of his, and bending Yuna's tight little, ah, ass over and, mm, railing her on the side of her fucking bed - and just pumping her full of cum just like that until- Jesus, she would walk around after and sometimes-"

You groan softly. This encouraging little sound.

"-fuck - sorry, I mean. Yeah, he, sometimes he'd make her walk around with his, ah, stuff inside. Down her fucking pants and, it's like, fucking disgusting, I swear-"

"And?" You breathe a heavy edged noise over the line.

Actually okay, so maybe this was more than she bargained for, maybe she bit off more than she can chew - maybe, she feels like her insides are collapsing; all the fire pooling around in her stomach and gathering into a melting sort of weightlessness.

"And it makes me feel fucking-"

"Fucking what."

"Why am I talking about this, why-"

"Talking to me? Fucking wet, Ryujin, answer the question."

She pants down at her phone and then turns her face into her forearm, rubbing and making sounds. She thinks about, oh, fucking Yuna and how she showed up to hang out once, with cum leaking down the crease of her inner thigh, smearing against her skin and down between her legs.

"Wet." She swallows. "How do I-"

"Say that you wish it was you," you tell her. "That you wanted that, to be fucked. To feel a cock inside."

Her head falls back. "That," she manages, "fucking, that."

You drawl so that the question might roll off, easy: "Is that the kind of girl you are? Told not to curse, not supposed to let anyone else play with you - you just need it, don't you? Do you need someone's cum? Just tell me."

"I think so, ah," and she stops moving her hand. "I think I'm gonna go now. This is fucking embarrassing, like. Okay, sorry."

"Don't hang up," you tell her, and the soft edge to it is one she really wants to indulge. "Don't," you repeat, a little louder.

You start talking, about the same sorts of things she's imagined herself: the sex and the sounds and what he can do to her. You build a slow and aching heat between her thighs that has her dripping through her underwear and grinding against her fingers. Telling her how she's the one that needs to be filled, needs a man who can wrap her legs around his waist, get to the deepest parts of her, the parts untouched and willing.

Ryujin gets that - she wonders, half out of it and stroking faster than she usually would be, how much of it has anything to do with who the voice is on the other end of the receiver, and how it could be what a desperate, pathetic, tired part of her has always wanted.

"Are you?" she asks, panting over the phone.

"Am I what?" you whisper back to her.

"Are you," and you hear how she inhales sharply through her nose, a desperate gasp leaving her lips on the exhale, "going to, um. Are you touching yourself right now?"

Your reply is immediate, and her eyes flutter and close the second you tell her exactly what she wants to hear:

"God, yes."

She drags her hand up the center of her body, runs her fingertips over her jaw and presses the heel of her wrist to her neck to feel her pulse slamming hard.

"I'm fucking throbbing, Ryujin; you sound gorgeous like this, like nothing I've ever heard, I'm stroking my cock just picturing you, please-"

"Tell me." She's mouthing into the center of her palm, saying the words, tasting salt and musk. "Fuck, ah," she babbles, "tell me what you would do with me."

"I'd get you on your knees," you tell her without hesitating for a beat.

"Fuck."

"I'd come up behind you and tell you not to be scared, baby. I wouldn't hurt you, I'd just touch you real gentle. Push my fingers past your tongue, slide a little down your throat."

"Uh huh," she moans, her head falling back and rolling, rocking against the mattress.

"Want you sucking on my fingers. Need your hands around my cock, or better, my balls, play with them. You're going to take those fingers - every finger I got, all five, yeah?- all ten of them," you joke, "and open up your tight cunt - like you are now, like such a good fucking girl-"

The girl fucking yelps. Just this honest sound of depravity; it's what she's paying you for. It's a silly line of bullshit, but it makes her bite hard and ache a little around her own knuckles and moan in her palm and dig her nails hard into her flesh. Her thumb fumbles across the top edge of her underwear and you pant again into her ear as if on cue, giving her a small bit of guidance that has her jolting in pleasure. She didn't know that was there, fuck, fuck-

"Like that, Ryujin. Breathe," and she does.

"Please," she whines, trying to find somewhere for her arm to settle, resting finally in her hair - setting the phone to speaker in a foolish moment of lapsed-judgment, just before it nearly clatters off the side of her bed.

Keep going - she's telling you over and over - keep going, and you’re picturing her there: eyes closed, legs spread wide, bent knees quivering and toes curling into the sheets. It doesn’t sound fake - you've heard a million of them, you've learned them in their different tones and accents and you can spot a faker a mile away. And the girl on the phone right now isn't pretending or thinking about whatever's happening somewhere else.

(You don't join in for everyone. You can't. It's an asinine consideration that you'd be rubbing your fist up and down your cock while it's sore and wanting - aching from the neglect or lack of rhythm. You have to remind yourself it's just a job, that the logistics just can't support such selflessness.

But then there's the very fucking premise.

That the girl on the other end of the line is inches from the goalposts, fingering her cunt and sighing into the throes of her first orgasm - first ever, because you did this, you brought her this far - you're the fucking culprit, and no matter how many girls, or boys-pretending-to-be-girls, how many people have gotten off with the help of your voice, your instruction, this one sets a different fucking precedent.

You're not lying when you say, "I'm rock fucking hard, Ryujin," or "there's precum all over my knuckles, baby."

Because there is, and the poor thing chokes out another desperate sound when you tell her.)

"I'm right there, ah, fuck, keep going-"

"I've got my hand around my shaft, just enough that I can fuck it, can't I? The head is getting slick - baby - and my palm is gliding nice and easy. Are you cumming, Ryujin? You better be, you better be cumming right now."

There's a heaving gasp and she calls out for you, babbling curses and "please" and "fuck" in alternating succession, with enough punctuation for you to have to let your lip slip under the hard bite of your front teeth. "Don't stop," she tells you, voice thready.

"You need this so bad."

"Yes," she gasps. "How would you-"

"How would I fuck you?" you finish her thought.

She waits a moment, sucking in shallow breaths and then replying weakly, "I really like... I like doggy."

"On your knees?"

"Yeah," she stammers, "I like when, like- ah, like, pulling my hair."

"Fuck, I love that," you say into her mewling. "Splayed out with your tits against a pillow and getting your pretty, little pussy pounded? I bet that'd feel so good, huh? Hands so rough on your hips, on your throat, squeezing your neck so you'll turn pink. Just to see you smile, I'd probably fucking let you take whatever you want."

You're met with a broken moan, a long string of syllables ending on a note that has your shoulders clenching and cock jumping in your grip.

Tense over the things you can't see: Ryujin biting down into the side of her hand, the other knocking painfully against the wooden side rail on her mattress, her thighs tightening and screaming and clamping around her wrist as she pulls weaker, wilder whimpers out of her chest each time her fingers drag across her slit and the sensitive curve of her swollen clit. She's dying, she thinks, she's going to fucking die - the in and out of her soaked pussy, through all that sticky, satiny skin, slick fingers diving in, twisting until there's nowhere for them to go.

No other recourse than to fuck in, fuck, fuck, like that, fucking god.

There's heavy silence on the line for god knows how long - well, you have to check the log. But for her, it feels like fucking forever. That was - that was it. It's so fucking mind-wracking how good it was, she can't quite wrap her brain around it. Nowhere near. She thinks she'll have a better idea after two rounds, definitely by four. She'll buy something, use the discount, go shopping - an orgasm just to make sure she's not bullshitting herself.

You clear your throat.

She moves sluggishly, away from the side and against the headboard - the heat still unbearably oppressive, her t-shirt clinging and sticking. "That," she stumbles through the afterglow.

"Do I need to apologize to you?" you ask lightly.

"What? Oh god, no - no way. No way. I just."

"Yes?"

"Like I didn't know it was this-"

"Did you just cum, Ryujin?"

She's laying there with the phone pressed to her brow. A hand palmed over her own racing pulse. The faint smell of her own cunt lingering around her face.

"I don't know," she tells you, and promptly hangs up.

-

The darkness in Ryujin's bedroom is punctuated only by the faint, hazy light streaming in from the hall, and her bedroom fan making its creaking little circles, as she waits in her post-nut-high for her breathing to normalize. Her mind is buzzing, and out of all this, she has a hell of a bill and a couple conclusions:

She's a coward and a pervert, but definitely, definitely bisexual.

Or, like. She's in some weird gray area between not liking whenever anyone buys her drinks, but also the girls at least let her dance a little close. That's a strange thing, isn't it? For how often her mouth does stupid shit - you think at least someone would figure it out for her.

But you, oh fuck. You-

She's fucking shaken up, for sure.

-

(It's a home office set-up, actually.

Your desk isn't organized; you're sure the photos on the wall are askew and the paint looks slightly worse for wear if you were to turn the lights on - which you never really do. There's an aging lamp tucked into the back corner, a bottle of scotch next to your handset that's closer to halfway empty than halfway full, and you can't stop imagining it.

Promise, This never happens.

You've got the name stuck to the roof of your mouth even though you know it's fake. Stuck with something so painfully abstract. Imagining this girl that is probably as brash and bawdy as her voice, or more exciting than either - maybe her hair is long enough to brush along her breasts. Or maybe it hangs just over her shoulders. God knows just how that would frame her features.

You can see it, really. You pump a handful of coconut oil into your palm and the details solidify so easily in your head: her pretty mouth, nose, the dimples in her cheeks - eyes glazed and sultry and gazing at you.

Smelling sweet, all the places you need, skin hot, clit swollen-

Just- fuck. Fuck.

Ryujin, huh, imagine that.

Ryujin.

And you jerk off right into the soft embrace of a tissue.)

-

A little more than a week later:

Ryujin's all wrapped up on the couch, with an arm cushioning her head and watching TV when there's a sudden commotion from the front door. Yuna - her friend, her very nice, very male friend who never shows up after midnight unless there's a promise of sex - comes bumbling into the room.

He has no regard for boundaries.

So,

Yuna starts to say, smug, from where the hallway becomes the living room, "Ryujin - look at us. Stuck on a Friday night. You gotta boyfriend or something?"

She's completely unfazed by this interaction. She's pretty sure he has his own key, so like, he should be used to it by now too.

"Kind of." She shuts off the TV to turn her attention towards the topic at hand. "Why?"

Yuna runs a hand through all her long, silky hair and gestures her cock-du-jour on over to the door of her room. "Waiting for a call, maybe." She waggles her eyebrows. "Are you any good, I mean, you never seem to..."

Annoying brat. 

Ryujin smacks the back of her neck and interrupts, "you gonna fuck him? Go ahead and fuck him, Yuna." She checks the lock. The kitchen. Gets up and tries to ignore the heat flaring behind her ears.

"We could pretend," Yuna muses, tugging the waistband of Ryujin's shorts around her fingers before she's out of arm's reach. The elastic flips back into her waist with a dull snap.

"Dumb idea. That's a dumb, dumb idea," she reasons, because she knows Yuna has no self control. None, and it's showing; the second her shoulders sag forward and her eyes dart, craving, Ryujin steps back in. "Don't be stupid."

Yuna's lips are tilted, playful. Ryujin wants to smack that look right off her face. Like she fucking deserves any kind of victory just because she found out she can fuck anyone she wants while lacking the self-awareness to somehow be contented with anyone. She's not going to call her a slut - out of a matter of principle - but god, does she fucking want to.

"Gotta get ready, is what you should do," Ryujin mumbles under her breath.

"Fine." Yuna shrugs and pecks an annoying kiss to Ryujin's temple on her way to the shower, waving a hand over her head with a casual, "If you want something, you've only got a half-hour."

Ryujin pushes her hair out of her face and does what she does best: overanalyze and overthink the situation.

Whatever. Yuna won't give it up regardless, not in any way she'd actually be able to enjoy. Her cheeks go a little redder while she pretends to not be considering it.

God, a threesome in total functional harmony however: her working her mouth on Yeji (Ryujin doesn't know why she's thinking about Yeji, but she is), Yeji working her mouth on her boyfriend, her boyfriend working his mouth on her -

That'd be something, she thinks. Like one of those Escher diagrams, but one where everyone cums at the end.

The thought makes Ryujin wet enough to squeeze her thighs together and stand up a little straighter.

Then she hears the showerhead turn on, and she wonders just why, exactly, Yuna is such a spoiled asshole.

-

Turns out,

The universe just has this habit of providing Ryujin with what she wants right alongside everything she doesn't.

She’s stretched out in her sweats, sat up at the top of her bed again and touching herself beneath the sheet in a pointless attempt to contain the mess. Fucking horny - it's honestly unbelievable - and her left hand's making lecherous, slick noises until it's absolutely gross. Until Ryujin's gasping and panting and sweating from the nape of her neck and the back of her knees.

All because Yuna's the loudest little-fucking-whore of a roommate anyone has ever heard.

She's moaning like she's getting fucking plowed into the next life. And apparently, the cock she's got in her cunt is fucking huge if those little murmuring whimpers are anything to go on. She keeps begging the guy, coy, for a kiss while she's probably folded up like a lawn chair in there, getting railed, and the fact that the boy keeps obliging is as admirable as it is kind of insulting.

"Goddamn," she thinks out loud, because the walls are paper-fucking-thin. The apartments in the area are built in an earthquake-safe way, which in reality, means they can either withstand a magnitude 6.0 and come out without any severe structural damages - or that it's so cheaply constructed the building will go down like a matchbox house before it stands a chance against a tremor of any significance.

They're easier to replace that way she’s told. And Ryujin's apartment is definitely of the latter; she can hear everything.

The skin on skin, their bodies sliding together in the slippery sheets. Her mouth smacking wet around his tongue as he bucks forward and asks her to do a hundred filthy things, asking her where it feels best - that sort of thing, which gets her wound and agitated and frustrated, and fucking horny as fuck. Ryujin's bent-inward and panting when he really gets to work - the creaks and groans, their mingled pants and the constant thudding and swaying of the headboard smacking into the wall.

She doesn't even need to put her ear to the partition like she's sixteen years old all over again, hoping to catch her old brother going at it while her mom was out. Trying to figure out this whole sex thing - what all the fuss was about.

Just the way Ryujin sighs is nothing short of despondent. Slightly pitiful.

And every tight circle she's running over clit feels so fucking good, until she realizes the room goes real quiet for a bit. The stillness - no slapping, no movement, just wet, panted-breaths and muffled speech. She nearly asks aloud what's wrong - but she hears it: Yuna's hushed but totally undeniable,

"Been so long- don't, don't- hold up," she croons in these high, sing-song little huffs. "That - uhn, ah - that's my - that's my good spot, there, keep - yes, harder!"

Ryujin slams her eyes closed, dropping down onto the mattress and wishing she'd slipped her hands into her sweats sooner. Fuck. And as Yuna's back starts banging against the wall - so rhythmic and fucking thorough - Ryujin can feel the heat curling behind the backs of her knees, radiating along her calf and reaching into the smalls of her feet. Fuck. Fuck, she doesn't even get to watch.

Right there. So good, please, so fucking good, is what Ryujin can’t not hear coming right through the drywall.

She’s three knuckles deep in her pussy, all stretched out, and she's practically drooling - "spread me, baby. Hold the, fuck, spread my lips open. See me- unh. Ah - see me? Please, do it-" - the boy groaning about it as he fucks her, and then, Yuna, needling him with a quiet, breathy, "harder, can't you?"

The answer seems to make Yuna squirm and scream.

And Ryujin's nearly rolling - rocking, fucking humping her own fingers because it's starting to ache a little, a cramping in her wrist and arm and jaw that she's trying really hard to ignore, rubbing and fingering and fucking herself closer, the heels of her feet sinking hard against the sheets, throbbing and aching around the flicks of her knuckles, harder, faster - faster -

"Fucking hell-" she seethes and stops moving all at once - because god, Yuna is un-fucking-believable.

The absolute bitch, she's doing it again: squealing and cursing and calling his name into her orgasm and just basking, it sounds like, right in it. Because she always does this, every single fucking time, she acts like it's the best feeling in the fucking world and she fucking loves everything, and that shit just - Ryujin grits her teeth and grimaces and pulls her slick fingers from her body - that just ruins it.

All that build-up and for what?

Fuck, Yuna really has the nerve to go there too. She's talking about sucking her own damn cunt or some bullshit-

Yeah, it's not fucking fair, Ryujin concedes.

Or maybe she's being punished. She could live with that, but god. The unfairness of it all. She tries, for a half a minute, to let her throbbing stop being a goddamn nuisance. But the noises coming from the other room are making her crankier, more angry, more irate - and definitely hornier than she ever really intended, even though she knows Yuna is thoroughly distracted in there.

Ryujin sits up a little straighter. Squares her shoulders, steadies herself and fishes around in her pockets with her uncoordinated, cum-coated hands until she finds her wallet, a credit card, her cell -

And there's an aching, a sore pulse of neglect between her legs; that's all too much. A quick peek down confirms that, yep, she's practically dripped right out of her shorts and even gotten a dark spot in the front of them. How great is that.

Yuna is over there, all, "thank you - ah - can you please do me a favor and fuck my mouth with your big, big, huge, fucking cock-" and this guy, he sounds so patient, telling her how he wants to do exactly that, but he wants to fill her tiny pussy up first, fuck her here, fuck her there, fuck a baby right into her. Wants to get his cum all over her face, smear her mouth and her throat and her cheeks - 

Ryujin inhales through her nose and holds, eyes falling closed in something between misery and anguish.

He's telling her, yeah, of course he'll fill up her throat - give her so much it's leaking out of her fucking nose - and Yuna sounds like she's moaning and garbling an objection to that last part - but it doesn't actually fucking matter.

"Geez," is Ryujin's quiet, little gasped-out response. He just fucking pounds her right back into place; her next orgasm. Fuck-

And there it is: the slew of moans that start back up and just keep on keeping on.

Shin Ryujin is going to lose her fucking mind.

-

Ryujin only lasts a handful more days before she calls again.

It’s another Wednesday night, if only to increase the odds that you’re working. Yeah, she could go with another guy, but another guy might not do everything you did, talking quietly and calmly - so composed while Ryujin was losing some part of her sanity to the thumb she pressed on her clit. 

No, it has to be you.

That's what Ryujin makes herself say when the operator apologizes and explains you're busy.

"Will he be working much longer? Please, I, um-"

"If you give me your number," the operator tells her, "I can add him as a preferred associate. You'll get him next time instead of going to the line."

Ryujin pauses, finger held to her chin. Will he know that? There's all this implication isn't there, that maybe he won't. Maybe you're popular - are you? It's a lot like texting someone for the very first time. And if you did - know, she means - would she be acting like a stalker? It would feel weird, probably, but no worse than some people do it already.

Oh god, this is kind of fucked up.

Maybe a little. Maybe.

Ryujin pauses, finger to her chin. Will he know that? There's all this implication, isn't there, or maybe he won't. Maybe you're popular - are you? It's a lot like texting someone you like-like for the very first time. And if you did - know, she means - would she be acting like a stalker? It would feel weird, probably, but no worse than some of things other people are undoubtedly doing with this service, Ryujin decides, and rattles off the digits so fast the operator asks for clarification.

"If your schedule doesn't open," the line says, "call back and leave a message with when."

Ryujin shrugs and says, "yeah, okay."

-

You make Ryujin sit through forty-five-fucking minutes of on-hold music - this barely audible synthetic noise that signals a connection is still there, truly a genre for no one - all before she just cuts the fucking line and lays down on the couch.

Okay.

Okay, fine.

Whatever.

-

(You are… going through the motions.

Some girl on the other line is barely holding it together; you can hear her thighs making slick noises. God. She sounds desperate, she's holding the phone all tight and saying your name. She's fucking babbling; it's not attractive, not while you're tilted back as far as your office chair will go and staring up in the ceiling.

You're bored, mostly.

"Please, please, I'm-"

"Going to cum, I know, princess." She asked you to call her that. "Mouth all open? Can't help it? Just need to lick it nice and fast?"

The answer comes all choppy: "I can't, ah, a-ah-nymore, no, I, can't, need-"

"Do you have any idea? How hard I'm fucking stroking my cock right now? Sitting right in my lap. Jerking it right for you," you say, and then she makes an embarrassingly wet noise, gasping through a choked whine, "so I'm ready to give you what you really fucking need."

"Yes," she chokes. "There - um, please, I just-"

"The biggest fucking load," you tell her. She has no idea, really, that you've got one hand on the receiver, the other just pinching the bridge of your nose - neither of which are you jerking the cum out of your cock and balls like a fucking hydrant as you’d described. What she doesn't know won't hurt her, and you keep your face turned to the side as she starts screaming. As it starts running into one noise that lasts forever - so unbearable that, this time, you consider going out to the bathroom to grab a glass of water and a handful of painkillers. "Need it deep. Let me pour it in, yeah?"

"Yes," she gasps again, heard on this distant frequency because, yes, yes, you've plugged your ear with a finger.

"That'll satisfy you. C'mon, now, princess - give it right up," you tell her, but your eyes are a little dull when her moan turns out all-gagging and twitchy and spasming through it, until finally:

"Ugh."

You wait a moment for the gasping and hitching to finish.

"Good girl," is your distant reply, followed by a polite, perfunctory, "call back anytime.")

-

Ryujin feels like she's in grade eleven again as she stares at her phone. Boys. Drama. Girls. The drama.

The overanalyzing, the wondering, the hesitating. Fuck. She wishes she knew a way to change this, because she doesn't feel particularly mature and is somehow reduced to this girl, this idiot sitting here all embarrassed and staring and moping about a thousand different calamities at once.

She's looking right at the lock screen: the wallpaper of her and Yeji and Chaeryeong out getting coffee on a random Sunday, all bundled up. Winter. Like three, four years ago, maybe.

Ryujin looks like shit, it's funny.

But Yeji -

How she can make the winter pallor look good is beyond Ryujin's understanding. It's unfair. All the things are. Her brain is back and forth and spinning, spinning like the hands on the old clock hung up on the wall in the kitchen. So stuck on what's not quite normal. Stuck on what doesn't fucking matter - who even fucking cares who the fuck she's attracted to?

She feels it between her legs.

Has been for like a month, or longer, without an outlet. Without anything to give her the hint that maybe she can get back to it - the right it.

She doesn't need to call, she tells herself. She's not some weirdo who's sitting on this for days just in the hopes that her boyfriend is having a bad week with work or whatever. It's only Wednesday, technically. Still way early. Just another few days, she reasons, another few hours - what does it matter?

Wednesday. She can feel the word settle inside of her.

Though only once her bottom lip is chewed to hell, does she pick up her phone and decide she will.

-

(You're in your bedroom this time around, finishing up your own weekday workout - on the bike, fifteen-second sprints - when your phone goes off. A simple dinging. Very unassuming.

The operator comes in with a cool, level, "line two, callback."

Then there's nothing but silence for a few beats.

You towel some of the sweat off your face. It's warm - your skin, flushed. Bouncing your phone in your palm. The same feeling that's been tugging at your throat for the past two weeks starts to flare and swell.

Not quite a hope, not quite expectation: just something close.

"Are they still there?"

The operator confirms. "Shall I put them through?")

-

Ryujin fumbles in her own rush of bravado, hands pressing against the fronts of her thighs in an unflattering, nervous little gesture as the connection clicks and picks up.

"This is him," comes your voice, a little husky and raspy from all the day-to-day talk, but even and easygoing and maybe - just maybe - something she can hang on to. Ryujin gives an acknowledging "Mmmn," like the phone call isn't causing her major inner-turmoil.

"Right, ah." You sound kind of, dare she say, nervous yourself. You clear your throat into the line and ask, "what brings you here, stranger?"

Ryujin pauses at this; the red in her ears reaches her fucking jaw. Stranger. Jesus christ, okay, okay-

She laughs. Stops immediately at how self-conscious she sounds. Clears her throat and tucks some of her hair back - settles herself into it like her life hangs in the balance. "I'm here to get my rocks off."

"It's not usually my place to say," you begin in earnest, "but if you're anything like me, and this is gonna sound completely off-the-cusp, but those two weeks really seem to build up, don't they?"

God.

She pulls her sock off her ankle. There's eczema on her heel, and it's the kind of thing she can imagine Yeji telling her to not scratch - that she's going to fuck up her skin. It's funny the stupid fucking things she can remember and all the things she forgets. Like just now, with your voice in her ear, a little unsure in a way that says you've got other, much more important things you should be doing. But you're here with her.

With Ryujin.

God. She might hate herself a little.

"Um," is how she finds her bearings. "Actually."

"It's a joke. Not that- I mean." She hears some rustling - assumes it's coming through the ear piece. There's an abrupt slamming on her side of the line and it seems like the worst kind of deja-fucking-vu. Her neighbors. She forgets it's even this late into the evening. That other people don't have to work so hard in their free-time.

"Maybe this isn't a good night," she says, not so much as thinking the words.

"What?" you ask. Then it dawns on you. "No, no. If you're there, I'm here." You clear your throat. "Besides, there's nobody I'd rather hear from than a woman so desperate she's signed onto my frequent flier's club."

She stops chewing the insides of her cheeks long enough to give you a tired, irritated sound. "Whatever."

And you nearly choke trying not to laugh.

"I don't, um-"

"What, do I have a nice voice?" You laugh quietly.

Under normal circumstances, that wry edge, the bit of try-hard-humor would have her rolling her fucking eyes clean out of their sockets. So when instead she opens her mouth and a fatal-fucked-flirty-feminine, stop, comes out, the vowel pulled long like a plea or a request - well, Ryujin's forehead drops against her bedspread in immediate regret.

You seem startled by it too, going quiet for a second.

"I-I'm-"

"Cute," you decide.

Her ears are red-hot and her cheeks have to be pinking and god, she hates this. That she's hearing this so soon, and it's making her brain hazy and soft and stuttering through, um's and yeah, well, um's. A part of her can't believe she's paying for this, and then, at the same time, she can't believe she's not actually putting cash down for more right this second.

Because it feels -

Like maybe -

Her shoulders rise. She wants this to be quick; she hates this feeling of embarrassment creeping its way in and grabbing onto her with both hands, like this weird, pseudo-affection. She's a grown fucking woman and here she is, letting all her guard down for someone she doesn't even fucking know.

You can feel the tension, hear it. Your lips purse. You try for something easy.

"Go on and give me the details, Ryujin."

Before you'd even picked up, she'd already half-undone her shirt, the flaps of the collar hanging loose with her hands gently petting her ribcage - so easily giving and pliant that there's a good portion of her, in spite of the doubt, in spite of what seems completely illogical about all this, that has her realizing maybe she wants this more than she can possibly understand.

God, she feels like a fucking fool.

"It's pretty boring."

"Not to me. I've spent the last few weeks talking to a bunch of assholes who don't appreciate what they got in the first place," you reply. She imagines you're a little playful about it. Wonders, momentarily, how good that smirk looks - if your eyebrows are lifting like you've been teasing her since day one. Fuck. 

“Your operator is a total asshole too, by the way."

"Don't say that," is Ryujin's shy reply, practically moaned out. "You sound like someone I'd absolutely fucking hate, jesus, stop that."

"Just because you don't get on with someone, doesn't mean they can't get you off."

"Smooth, or something."

"I'm taking a break, relaxing a little, enjoying an overrated TV show or whatever this is - not really minding my business," you say, but your smile is so audible it's fucking offensive. And she's - she's maybe, definitely into that. Like the fucking embarrassment in this is turning her on. Ryujin puts the tip of her finger in the waist of her shorts, experimentally, gently, this small brush and press to her sensitive lower stomach. And it's true. All she hears is her own breathing in the receiver, a bit labored over the slightest, least indecent touch. It's amazing, how much her body can want even when her head can't seem to catch up.

"What do you like?" she asks. “You’re a person, working bits and all, something’s gotta get you all worked up and flustered, no?”

"Will you believe me if I tell you this is my absolute favorite?"

"Do you always dodge the question?"

"It's just like a courtesy," you clarify, "it's not personal."

"Now I sound like a desperate pervert."

"On the contrary," is your warm, buttery reply, and it is fucking aggravating just how well this works on her. "I think there are much better things people can say about you."

God, that - the thought, the possibility of something about her that has nothing to do with how 'thick' or 'thin' her thighs are, or the silhouette of her ass in safety shorts, or how her voice makes guys want to ask if they can take her home and fuck the answers from her, or any of that; it's kind of liberating, just a tiny bit. That it can be a good thing for some reason. God.

Ryujin rubs herself. "Yeah, well."

She wants it all the same and says nothing, shifting a little until her hips tilt slightly upwards, letting her pull at the drawstring of her shorts, loosening the grip. She's already kind of feeling woozy in all the best ways, soft and feminine in how she slides her hand underneath her shorts. Over panties first, with no clear idea if you can tell and honestly, too distracted to wonder about that, if she should care or not, too caught up with her fingertips over the raised seam in her underwear - where the fabric's wet from her.

A shush comes into the line when Ryujin swallows.

The ache between her legs grows louder.

"You still there, Ryujin?"

"Of course," and then, she finds a little more reassured finality: "fuck, yeah, fuck. Please, I..."

"Ryujin," you say with all the calm and control in the world, "talk to me."

-

(So - truthfully, honestly, factually - you are a total wreck.

You're sitting there in a heap of bedsheets and a cold sweat when Ryujin finally mutters into the silence, "thanks, for that, I, uh- that felt really good, exactly what I needed," and hangs up before you can ask about her day or comment on the weather or suggest calling back tomorrow.

She is just perfect, the way she lets a small "I..." slip when she's close. Perfect, how she groans her little broken, satisfied sigh of a yes, her last, fleeting exhale just a sweet, high, barely there please, her body tensing with every little shudder and moan and pant. How the pace goes fast and then slow - like she's gotta think it out a second, her own fingers bringing her closer and closer until there's nothing but a flurry of movement and ragged breaths - an enthusiastic little mmph noise - followed by Ryujin's wet and slick little laugh that sounds like relief.

Like you did something to help, like she needed you and wanted you.

There's cum sticking all up your torso and along your wrist, the inside of your thigh - everywhere you could manage, frankly - and, shit, it's not fair, you realize:

She can find you, whenever she needs you.

And you -

You're just sitting here. Nowhere near sure she'll even call again.)

-

There's a sizable difference between being lonely and being alone, Ryujin thinks, running the cloth under the stream of the shower and then pressing it damp against her throat, wiping at the backs of her knees.

Lonely means that something's missing - it's something she feels when she catches a glance at the handsome arm reached around Chaeryeong's waist, the way she dances so close to someone she just met, or whenever she tells her that she's thinking about, maybe, probably, definitely, absolutely going home with him if her friends don't stop her from leaving. God, her smile is always so cute when he's near. When someone's calling her over for drinks - hips sashaying like she doesn't know the whole bar is staring at the creases where her thighs flare into her ass - because he gave her a look from across the room, and she's swaying from drink to drink.

Like, of course, they're fucking; it's a known, unsaid thing.

She knows it, he knows it. Chaeryeong fucking owns it.

Alone however, is just what it says on the tin.

That's something else Ryujin has yet to learn - that everyone loves differently, cares for different things. Yuna is still single after all, and she can never shake the feeling that it's simply to spite her for some perceived slight or another; Yuna can't live without company, no matter how brief or short or meaningless, so perhaps it's better she never catches on or finds anyone worth keeping around.

And Yeji?

Ryujin sighs, rakes the comb through her wet hair.

The showerhead is running hot between Ryujin's fingers, and the water coming off of her skin turns to steam instantly, filling the bathroom with a permanent cloud, stuck in flux - rising towards the ceiling. She passes her fingers under it, watches the flow, a quiet hm escaping the back of her throat - and she considers the way it feels beating against her throat and chest.

Down the concave curve of her stomach. How it burns red right over her thighs. The pressure slips and sinks low, lower - and when she puts a palm out for a little stability, her left leg can't help but buckle just so, lifting itself out and off to the side. So she stands, toes pointing against the shower floor, face first into her arm against the cool tile.

Ryujin sees where the rivulets of water have gathered above her clavicle - feels them trail down over the tightness in her breasts and between. A couple images pass through her mind at once - thoughts of fingers trailing a line back up the center of her body and a gentle tap against her chin, turning her face to some perfect all-consuming kiss - a hand squeezing at her calf, rubbing her muscles gently - Yeji smiling into the crook of her neck, the grasp on her hip, wrist flexing. Her back bowed and fingers, broad and experienced -

"Don't need you," Ryujin quietly says to nobody, which -

You're doing so well, Ryujin hears back in her imagination, you're so beautiful, you can keep this up, I know you can. I bet it feels good, doesn't it? Just let go and I'll...

Ryujin whimpers out. She can feel that line deep inside her going taut, buckling in her core, the reverberations down to her wrists and fingertips and toes. If she didn't have the wall in front of her, she knows she'd be on her knees - kneeling to the hot water pulsing around the knots of nerves right behind her clit. The pressure hitting her like the crack of a whip.

"Fuck me," she says to no one, gasping in that way you only can when no one is listening.

Yeji's smile is what's gotten her this close so many times, the smell of the ends of her hair tickling Ryujin's nose. Hell, she can't stop thinking about the way her nose crinkles or her dimples flare just when she finds Ryujin's name in her mouth.

It's not fair.

She's so close to cumming and letting whatever happens happen. The slick of her release pouring right out into the drain of the shower, washed away with the excess. So when her whole hand shifts and catches in just the right, delicious, frustrating way, Ryujin inhales so deep through the end of the sentence that, as a result, her knees wobble.

She feels like fucking crying.

It's that sweet little lilt in Yeji's voice, saying things like: "It's alright. I promise you can keep this up a little longer." And "Oh, god, baby." And, at worst, the way her voice shakes with a "come here, honey. Let me-"

Ryujin has to catch herself when her footing slips a little from under her. Then, your voice, coming in distant at first, grows louder, clearer. Into something catastrophic, right against her throat, like it knows the very inside-and-out of her, "go on. Fuck, please, cum all over me, baby - show me a face no one else gets to see."

And for the first time,

Ryujin gets herself off. Alone.

She moans and sighs out. Gasps, "there you go-" and whispers an, "ah, jesus." She manages the most silent, the least decipherable, fuck, as it leaves her mouth like a prayer. Her left knee twitches, body curling into itself, and her hand moves - fingers closing and her eyes clenched shut, a wave, cresting - she just-

Collapses.

Wanting: Yeji, sure - and she came - but the only thing she can really wrap her head around is the truth that she's so, utterly fucked.

-

"Are you sure there's no one you can bring?" Yeji asks in the middle of slapping the ever-loving shit out of a coffee maker that has, for as far as anyone can remember, never worked.

"Uh," is Ryujin's inconvenienced reaction, the tips of her fingers idly sorting through her credit card statements, which a more-sober, less-horny version of herself is a little out of sorts over. "I'm not sure there's anyone I'd want to bring."

"Uh huh," Yeji replies.

She pauses and rests the bottom edge of the coffee maker on the edge of the kitchen counter, stopping herself mid-smack - leaning away to try and give the stupid thing a once-over.

"Who the hell says it's got to be someone you wanna make babies with? Maybe it's just someone you'd think would look good beside you, smiling at the cameras with. Or."

"Or."

Yeji's lips tilt. "Or someone you wouldn't mind screwing in the bathroom."

Ryujin spins the pen in her fingers and gives Yeji a look that says back off and can you chill out already, in the sort of way it takes years to ferment - the silent understandings, the good-natured naggings, the good-fucking-luck-with-that-buddy's. Yeji knows she's getting on Ryujin's nerves. Knows that has never stopped her before.

"In my defense," Yeji clarifies, "I can count at least a hundred people that would crawl over broken glass to sleep with you and, uh-" She knocks the coffee maker off of its stand and holds it gingerly to her chest like some child, motherly. "-I don't wanna take a bullet for your unintentional chastity, Shin Ryujin."

"First of all, don’t pretend you’re doing me a favor here," she replies. "Second-"

"Can't hurt just asking, right? I could set you up, you know, someone you've never even met - no pre-burnt bridges to maneuver."

There’s a world, and Ryujin imagines it for all of a second, where she stands up and grabs hold of Yeji by her cute little ponytail - if nothing else, just to stop the way it bounces every time she steps - and maybe, she also kisses her on the mouth so hard she stumbles. Or perhaps she could pull that ribbon free of its holdings and unravel it down against Yeji's jaw. Pull a whimper, a tiny little ah that says this was inevitable. Maybe they crash onto her bed. Maybe she gets her fingers sticky with how soaked through the cotton of Yeji's shorts have gotten in those short, heated moments - what a world that would be.

"One of what's-his-name's friends? I’m assuming."

Yeji looks annoyed and proud and beautiful; all at once.

"Yes, and what's-his-name's pillow talk is exceedingly whiny about how my best friend is so incredibly standoffish and abrasive and-"

"Okay. I'll go." Anything to stop the image of Yeji with the comforter pulled up to her tits and hair splayed all over the place; red and flushed. Her lips curling with the curve of the sheets and god -

"Just for an hour?" Ryujin asks.

Yeji finally places the coffee maker back onto its stand.

"I mean, nothing much happens an hour into a birthday party," Yeji reassures. "It'll be fun."

"Uh-huh."

"Trust me."

Ryujin wonders just how far Yeji could go - if she knows that she can snap her fingers together, and Ryujin will be there: ready to do anything.

-

Ryujin is trying to go to sleep, is how she'll explain it if anyone asks. Though she prays to god no one ever will.

She tries books. And she tries scrolling aimlessly through Instagram. And there's this one guy she kinda-sorta-dated's updates: photos of a vacation to Boracay, which seems nice; his chest is a little more defined, more chiseled than when she was seventeen and kind of fumbling her way around a college boy and his stupid fucking preoccupation with who should be paying for drinks at whatever run down establishment was his pick of the night. Ryujin makes a face at the screen, pursing her lips; there's a girl in the photo - she looks too young for how her ass is falling out the one-piece. To the extent that she makes sure to send an unsolicited meme she's tagged herself in - like "here is my past and here are his balls", and gets a block and a report as a thank you.

It makes her feel good. That's what's most important.

And then, with little other distraction and a decent lack of luck, she picks up the phone.

It rings for a while before the operator comes in and says, "You're at number nine."

"What?"

"The queue. This call has you at number nine."

Ryujin slowly leans up from the pillows and squints into her bedroom.

"Huh."

"Would you still like to be connected, miss?

Ryujin thinks it over for a moment. Of course you're popular, a part of her mind comments, because you've got a voice like gravel-slung honey-gold. She's imagining eight other girls just like her, laying in their bed, panties on their ankles and thumbs covered with spit. All desperate for you. All curled up - one right after the other - with no fucking idea.

"Miss," the operator comes back with.

The line goes quiet - a few beats, but not too uncomfortable a silence. Then she gets a soft little exhale out, saying, "can I leave a callback number?"

"If you like." The operator considers the idea. "I can’t promise whether he’ll call you.”

“No, yeah.” Ryujin curls an arm under her chest and plays a finger against the swell of her breast through her night shirt. Gets lost in her own consideration. “Don't think he would anyway."

-

A new day is defined by new possibilities, or something or another you read once stitched into a frame; Something you muse over the rim of your coffee, nose-deep in the laptop at the kitchen counter top.

Last night ended a bit unexpectedly - this not considering the couple's awkward fight which took up two-thirds of the evening. Or the girlfriend-slash-fiancée of that guy, which somehow led you to wonder just how old was too old. But as you were logging your final client session of the night a ping came through the employee portal and let you know that someone had left their number with the operator in the hopes you'd call.

You swig back the rest of your coffee, roll your shoulders and shrug. Oh, there are at least a million reasons not to call a number that randomly, offhandedly arrives in the middle of the night and gets patched through a phonesex hot line under the cover of darkness.

The same number could be out there, defacing the wall of a truck stop bathroom, or inked into the skin of a squat prison convict who's got a brow like the horizon. Maybe, it belongs to that married business man that took your personal phone number as his private line and spent all the time bragging how he was going to quit his wife and make a run for it with you - just you - even though you'd rather stab him with a fork than be involved with that kind of psychopathy and are honestly just looking for that extra bump in commissions every time his wife calls to ask the exact same thing.

Your clients call. You talk.

You take the cash.

The point is: there's more fucking deviants out there than there are stars in the sky. You would know; you talk to a new handful every goddamn day.

Yet it doesn't really matter. You're gonna do it. Because you're feeling restless. Because - and it sounds insane - there's at least some probability, no matter how remote, that you will pick up that receiver and punch in a number and the line will connect with the girl who's been on your mind almost constantly for the better half of two months. That you might listen to the dial tone turn into her answering with a genuinely indifferent, "this is Ryujin," or whatever her name actually is -

You're living in a pipe dream. You're probably reaching, actually. And all you know about this woman, is, what? What does it really, factually, truly amount to, the amount you feel you've come to know about her.

You know more about how she prefers to methodically, meticulously begin, then draw out, and finally end a blowjob to someone that ain't you than you do about any detail in her life story, frankly. You're reaching, and you know it.

You pick up the phone and dial.

-

(It goes straight to voicemail, and get this: that’s her real fucking name.)

-

Yuna has the audacity to ask, as she slides into the booth, "who do you keep texting?"

Ryujin's eyebrow arches.

The younger girl nods towards where Ryujin's thumbs are practically flying over the keyboard.

"No one." Ryujin puts the phone on her lap and crosses her arms over her chest. Then the words seem to echo through the inside of her skull, so she shakes her head a little, in emphasis. "It's nothing, don't worry about it."

She's right though - and maybe that's the problem. Maybe that's why it's hard to answer.

Chaeryeong washes the shot of whisky down with a swallow of lemon-lime. Her eyes slide open to Ryujin as she wipes at her bottom lip. Then she spikes a finger into Ryujin's ribs.

"Spill."

It's a dangerous order, and she doesn't realize it at first. Chaeryeong's bad ideas have an annoying habit of flinging themselves on Ryujin, like a bomb dropped at low altitude - sudden, quick, and more than enough to shake everything up. Chaeryeong will make Ryujin go out dancing - and then she'll lose her clutch purse. Chaeryeong will remember she started the evening with a scarf - so they need to walk out a whole block or two to find it.

More importantly: Chaeryeong is not a great drunk.

So, of course she spills. She relays her findings, carefully and as deliberately as she can muster.

"Does he have a nice voice?" Chaeryeong asks.

"It's kind of deep?”

Chaeryeong snorts. Apologizes immediately.

"Not... deep. Sultry. I guess. Smooth, easy to hear." Ryujin tells the two across the table.

Yuna whistles low. "Romantic as shit."

“Fuck, I don’t know. In, like a sexy sort of way." Ryujin raises both palms in a vague gesture. She clears her throat at the two pairs of eyes staring back at her as though the words coming out of her mouth belonged to a foreign language. "Uh. Sort of raspy, or something, sometimes, like he's... on the phone a lot, and you know," Ryujin flushes, suddenly caught and wondering where all the confidence went, "yeah."

Yuna's leaning forward, chin in her palm. "I'm having a hard time believing texting is a sort of standard operating procedure."

"Well try a little harder," Ryujin snaps, eyes finding Yuna's and making herself fucking clear.

Chaeryeong has this look about her, she's trying to keep it all in, but then there's her eyes, cinched at the corners and dead-fucking-giveaways. She puts an arm against the table and points at Ryujin with an up-reaching thumb. "This is the cutest shit, like ever, and you two are texting like actual lovers instead of two, apparently rando-stranger fuck buddies, or whatever."

Yuna - for whatever reason - feels at liberty to throw gasoline on the fire. "Does that mean you think he's going to get jealous if you bring some dude along to Lia's birthday?"

Ryujin sucks in a breath; the fact that he'd never - well.

"Ryujin's in love," Yuna adds for dramatic effect, for the sake of being the worst fucking person. She can be so fucking petty. It's a side of her no one ever sees, because she's just so sweet all the time. Like right now, she's doing that smile-smirk thing that gets Chaeryeong giggling against her hand and then coughing into it a second later.

"Jesus christ," Ryujin starts gathering her jacket and purse. "He's- not- this is- God, I'm done." She slips her shoulder under the strap. "Thanks for listening to me sound like a teenager."

"Isn't that just normal for you," Yuna quips back, pulling at her straw until there's only air rushing through the bend of it. "Where are you going?"

"I can't stay here," Ryujin says as if it's obvious, as well as her point, the argument she's trying to make. "Besides, Yeji is gonna want me to get my dress and shit all sorted out."

"Don't fall in love with one of the robot voices at the cross-walk on your way home, or anything!" Yuna laughs out, giving a flippant wave goodbye.

Ryujin lets her eyes roll because sometimes, she hates her friends.

-

It still throws you for a loop whenever Ryujin pings your phone with a text that says something like:

have you jerked yourself off to exhaustion or is there one more in you for someone like me?

Or,

my roommate is getting pounded through the springs of her mattress, wanna see if you can hear it?

Or,

are you free? I really fucking need to cum. bad.

Each text is something you tuck into yourself. Save and mark and spend all your time in those long-form responses imagining how her face looked when her brain typed out the words for you. You wonder if she's sighing through her fingers or hiding her lips behind a pillow while the heat coils in the pits of her hips.

As time goes by, Ryujin slips a little more. From one text about whatever book or series she was rereading last and another about the sadism of politicians and how people are more likely to agree with what they've heard someone else say than the facts of a given subject, to texts with a few scattered thoughts to strings of sexting that has you cumming into the palm of your hand and through your sheets and in the middle of a dream in which there's no clothes and a pretty fucking filthy proposition.

"How have you been lately," you decide, and consider, briefly, the very strong likelihood this call is gonna send her right through the goddamn roof.

When Ryujin eventually finds herself able to get out: "fine," there's a tell-tale pause, then an even longer pause, that implies she'd definitely rather say anything else. Then she kind of stutters a, "pretty good. Not too bad. All that stuff, I suppose."

And not to say any part of this has felt like routine. Both of you breathing into the end of a telephone and letting your eyes clench tight while you cum all over yourself - imagining everything she told you she wanted you to do to her, how it'd all go: "fucking with my arms grappled behind my back," she'd hum, "head pushed into the bedsheets, you're smothering me, ah- I'd let you cum wherever the fuck you like, but please-" or maybe a bit simpler: "so my thighs are straddling your face?" is about the gist.

A second goes by, another, a third.

"Hang on," you end up having to tell her sometimes, "I need a fucking towel-"

"You really are, huh, jerking off with me- I get you that hot, is what you're telling me? Or is just too much imagining how you'd fuck your way right into my guts through my pretty little pussy? Ah, jesus," the cadence of her voice climbs high before ending up back where it belongs, "Jesus, fuck."

"Can you imagine," is how it'd start, "how good it'd feel? My pussy, or- anywhere, everywhere. I think you'd ruin me for anyone else - you- with how, god-"

You can hear Ryujin shift on the sheets, licking at her bottom lip. Silently cumming. Cumming for you.

"Okay."

"Okay what," Ryujin quietly says back.

The gears turning.

You press your hand into the side of your neck. "Fuck me. Now, in a second. Tell me the last fucking thing in the world you want me to be or do and-"

"Wait."

There's this half-breath. This hmm that almost trips off Ryujin's tongue. Her eyes squinting open to a new thought. You think she's about to be sly. About to surprise you with an offhand fuck yes I'd ride that face like a bus seat; that she might come back with, yes I'll put you right in the middle of the best part of me, god you'll love it, and I promise not to make you cum if you're nice enough not to let your hands wander. But.

It's funny how things are -

"I have a confession," she says, matter-of-factly.

That's not entirely unusual. You've had more of those come through your line in a year than a confessional grate might get in a lifetime. So it doesn't sound like something special to you; Ryujin and you are in this candid don't-ask-don't-tell in regards to payments and the exchange of goods and services, but here you are, still using lines and bits. Practiced.

"In the name of the father, and of the son, and-"

"Funny." Ryujin gets the hint to backtrack. "Uhm, I mean. Remember the roommate I was telling you about?"

You hum a, "maybe."

"Uh," and now the hushed voice from her throat sounds distant, suddenly out of the scope of the receiver, "can I be totally, honestly- just really, extremely honest here, are you- or?"

You stop thinking about the ebbs and flows of her voice, how it dips down then arches up a little. Because now her voice has become something that is nervous, bordering on uneasy. So you stop, take stock and hold on. You weren't expecting a voice of worry or tension, or not at least while she wasn't thrown back into her bed and rubbing furiously at the ache between her legs.

"Yeah, of course," you offer her up.

"This is so embarrassing," she's saying, and some part of you feels ready to sink - you haven't the faintest idea for what, but there is something. Your chest clenches.

You can't help the worry and reply: "Okay, um. I mean- yeah. Me too, I can admit I feel a bit- and you can, y'know, be a little-"

"I'm not straight," she says finally, with a little quiver of her voice right at the tail end.

A blink comes, another - there's nothing coming out of you and you have no idea why that should be at all difficult, so the silence grows long. A new sort of awkward; the kind that you find out isn't just the rush of cum cooling in a pair of sweat-damp underwear. No - this is embarrassment, the kind that taints you.

"What?" You exhale a strained laugh, almost too-bright. "Are you- is this some sort of-?"

"Nope, no, this is crazy, sorry." She laughs. "Sorry."

"You certainly had me fooled." You sit up straighter in your bed, resting elbows on your knees. The moon is filtering through the windowsill and bathing the room in blue - casting light all the wrong ways. Making your own heart beat just a little too fast. "Fuck, um. Can I ask a personal question?"

"Sure." Her voice sounds uncharacteristically soft.

"What are you into?" and you as soon as you ask, you're laughing - because you've heard Ryujin wax lyrical for weeks, pontificate about every manner and way she'd take a cock between her hands, lips, fingers. Every. Single. Place, she wants one in - and now you can't believe this is what you went with: "I mean, like girls?"

"It's probably safe to assume I have some, y'know- degree of- yeah."

You chuckle a bit. The stiffness in your shoulders settling out.

"I've been in love, I realize - boy, with my roommate - for a while."

It's said with a sad laugh - as if this were a little shameful. Some deep, dark secret no one could ever be privy to; some stain on her soul that might wash out only after one final scrubbing with dish detergent and the cruelest bristles. A thing that keeps her up at night -

“Not the roommate, by the way, who we listen to get fucking railed like she’s on-demand pornography every weekend. Just to be clear."

"Good, jesus, that'd be fucking something."

Ryujin sounds more cheerful when her voice comes back through the line, "right?"

You wipe the perspiration of your top lip. You laugh nervously at this girl admitting to being in love over the phone - a stranger, truly, in all ways - to some fucked up audio-fetish sex line personality. And now - the fuck's wrong with you?

"Are you mad?" she asks, and some part of you is wrung. A small string of tension twisting so hard inside your gut, you're losing touch.

"No," you let her know. "No, not at all."

And that is honest. This is honest. There's this itching little scratch all over the insides of your skin that seems intent on driving a fucking wedge. Right at the center of your chest, tearing you apart. It feels as you've lost - not an object, not a material. Not an idea, nor a concept - but a feeling, that for once, was distinctly, overwhelmingly yours, without your wanting, or permission, or comprehension.

Ryujin sighs, this elongated relief coming in. She sinks back against the headboard.

She tells you everything. How Yeji smiles, and it's like the whole fucking room has gone up in lights, just from her and her alone. How there is nothing that she'd rather spend all her days around. She talks and you sit there, silent and listening. She talks about her. Her name and everything Yeji does and everything she wants.

The more you listen, you realize it's all real; she's not confused, or mistaken, or out to play a game or convince herself of something she believes is inherently untrue. She's not frustrated, or longing. She doesn't have this stomach-rolling pit of anxiety digging a cavern at her center because she just can't go through the rest of her life, living a life like everyone else. Not ever.

Because, all you really notice is-

She loves Yeji. The quiet kind. And she's sitting there, legs curled under her ass, crying. Not sad, or frightened, or wounded, just this beautiful sort of awed: it's the kind that only someone who is too inexperienced at crying should have. Where you just-

Look away.

"I'm not taking my phone into the bath with me," is the last thing she says to you, tears flooding out in her last couple words, before you can only offer her a meek: "anytime, Ryujin, I'm here."

-

(Four, five weeks go by in the blink of an eye. A month where you figure it's best to let her text or call or make it clear she wants your voice.

She never does.)

-

Lia is taking her sweet time to apply concealer over the cut Ryujin earned herself trying to get a stupid thing off a shelf - that's how low and unreasonable her tolerance for anything mildly inconvenient is.

"That fucking hurts," Ryujin tells her, wincing.

Lia ignores her.

She keeps on dabbing at the spot on her temple with the makeup brush until there isn't any trace of bruising, or where the jagged scar of a cut ends and skin begins, not anymore. At this point, she has gotten better, has developed a kind of surgeon's eye: zeroing in and unblinking, until every inch of damage is looking like Ryujin did when she was brought into this world -

(which is not perfect, but what it ought to look like, all things considered.)

Lia holds her hands in place on either side of Ryujin's head. "Stay."

It takes less than five minutes, and during those, Yuna just offers from around the bathroom door, "Ryujin, sweetheart, you’re looking hot tonight."

There's nothing more Ryujin wants to do than set the girl straight - the girl can't not keep a chirp to herself, for once in her fucking life. Because this flimsy slip of a dress around her middle feels too tight, the air choked out of her lungs if she shifts her weight onto the wrong foot. The hem rides way too fucking high up her thighs. So, if anyone didn't want a good long look at her ass tonight, they better come up with a plan B if she has to so much as approach a staircase.

"Have I ever not," she bites.

Yuna snorts.

And luckily for Ryujin, Lia feels the same way:

"Yuna, would it kill you to find something productive to do with your time?"

Yuna opens her mouth like she has something to say (she usually does) before retreating further away, the edge of her hair disappearing around the doorway. Then Ryujin's grinning - eyes taking in how Lia glowers a bit back, silently judging the stupidity in Ryujin's expression and also, admiring how good the girl looks. "Not bad, though, really."

Lia tells her with an underhanded wave of the brush and a wink: "historically, you do always get laid on my birthday, remember?"

Ryujin jerks a little, and the scar above her eye throbs into Lia's thumb. "Thanks?"

-

The party is miserable, but it's not Lia's fault. It's not really Yeji's fault either. They tried, that's really all she can say for them - her and her permanent-plus-one whose face Ryujin wants to both claw at and kiss until it’s swollen-

What she really can't wrap her mind around, though, is the guy sitting right fucking beside her. The idiot.

"Really, I'm telling you," her date - who is about 3.5 out of five stars at best and not so much handsome or hot as he is 'okay in a pinch' - grins up at her with the smarmiest of smiles, "if you'd just have taken me up on dinner, I would've spent all our time talking about you. We’d figure out how to enjoy ourselves."

"Likely story."

This fuckwad has the absolute goddamn gall to look wounded when his arm starts circling its way around the space where her dress is suffocating her at the waist, and Ryujin starts to shimmy her way out of hot water - again. God, she thinks, god save me-

"I think," she manages with a stilted grin, "I'm going to make myself useful- drinks, no?"

When he leans forward to grab her hand, it's only so she doesn't leave.

"You're not going to ask for my order?" he presses. The only reason Ryujin hasn't knocked out a couple of his front teeth is because Lia would be the one hearing Yeji whine about cleaning up the fucking mess.

"Just scotch. Neat."

Ryujin's a natural when it comes to smiling fake; it's part of her goddamned job. "Of course," she says, like she's not absolutely loathing him.

"Try the oakier, single-barrel variety, alright," he explains, because what's hotter than a man who's an expert in alcohol and being an insufferable tool? Nothing of course. She hopes he knocks back a few too many and his liver explodes - the painless way out. If god would ever fucking allow it.

She barely manages a half-strangled laugh over the blare of the music before he finally releases her wrist. 

The absolute fucking prick.

-

Here's something Ryujin never thought she'd come to appreciate:

Being alone.

It's just her and the breeze through the open doors of the rooftop garden, which is something every bit as refreshing as it is teeth-chatteringly cold. The wind picks up in gusts and billows, until it starts nipping up the fabric around her knees, like it's any one of the drunk, stumbling guests milling about and looking for a noncommittal lay.

Her left foot slips a step outwards, the uncomfortably tall heel bouncing on the edge of her toe and tapping a tune against the brick. Ryujin slouches on the railing that encapsulates the entire terrace, arms pressed over it, hands folded one-over the other - letting the night sky caress her bare shoulders with its wind-brushed kisses. This, is okay. It's better.

Maybe not ideal, but better.

And all it really took was a few fucking moments where she isn't smiling with pursed, stressed lips; where the pressure in her jaw finally settles out enough for the knot in the back of her teeth to fall loose and for her mouth to actually feel, y'know - good.

Not forced, is what. Not fake, or not real, or whatever-

Ryujin almost fishes her phone from her clutch. Almost. Almost texts to tell you that: this fucking night, like all the others in the past month or two or year, has left her feeling particularly done for, and yeah, no, it isn't helping that she'd take whatever would be the alternative if it meant a face like yours came in handy to lean against, or your shoulder or thigh to use. Like some pillow - that's all.

And you are, like. An option. But not, she sighs out, exactly the right one.

An errant chill shudders through her and down her spine.

"Shin Ryujin."

She'd recognize the tilt of that voice anywhere; even if her ears were pounding and her head filled with static and noise, she'd be able to place Yeji at the end of the world. The truth is easy to see, if only Yeji knew where to look: the corners of Ryujin's eyes screw up tight for a second, an immeasurably long time, in order to not do what they wanted. What it would mean.

She does anyway. "I'd hug you," Ryujin throws behind her with an airy sigh, "but I know where you've been."

Yeji's jaw has set at this point; a twist is still in her lip and she lets out this dry, half-laugh, half-not sound - which is the thing that drives Ryujin a little crazy. Yeji turns her attention from the concrete ground, to Ryujin's profile, her body leaning forward, toes tipping in: "sometimes I wonder if my partner in crime can breathe without saying something incendiary."

"Nope." Ryujin offers no further response or follow-up. Instead, the quiet gush of air makes itself the center of attention and a victim of silence.

"Sorry about-"

"Don't be. Don't give it a second thought." Ryujin stretches, leaning a little over the railing. Her fingers arch before her. Her words sounding the slightest bit cold, "can't win 'em all, right?"

Yeji's eyebrows pull together. "That's not how this was supposed-"

"God, Yeji." Ryujin smiles. Yeji hates that she never knows what that means. "I'm trying, really, I am, but you know - I really, I have tried my best, so can we just lay it to rest?"

Yeji leans over the railing - the fucking moon reflecting in these lustrous pools where her eyes go darker than night - and doesn't say anything for the longest moment. Ryujin chews her tongue, and tries to look as interested in the void of stars and night clouds as possible.

"Fuck's going on with you, lately?"

Ryujin just laughs back.

"Really," and the last word dips in a groan. It's almost childishly tragic how petulantly she insists, "talk to me."

But Ryujin has nothing else to say - no witty, scathing remarks. No deadpan observations or funny asides, not even a morose comment to throw back. There are times and moments and fucking periods of her day where she'd happily chew glass if it meant that Yeji would sit there a second longer, be beside her for a while and smile, just smile at only her, once - for once.

Her only response is the worst kind of lie, this soft: "really nothing."

The moment where it slips and hangs between them, when it lingers the longest -

She could reach out, a hand on her thigh, the small of her back, if she could only reach. And Yeji, she'd listen to her, for once. She'd really, genuinely hear what Ryujin says; like she can see it, plain as day, everything there's in Ryujin's eyes, the thoughts inside her head, written on her goddamn face and across the open night air in neon:

I love you. I'm in love with you, you're too close to me.

The seconds pass. They tick, they stretch and grow thin. Yeji looks at Ryujin expectantly, and Ryujin knows. It is something like being put on the spot and called in. Something like a long, pained whimper caught somewhere in her throat.

She is very much still, unmoving, and feeling nothing at all.

Maybe she can blame the alcohol, the dark, the series of events that saw her hiding away behind a bunch of decorative trees and fighting for breath where the wind blows a little cooler. She can pretend like the stars aren't absent above her, and it doesn't hurt a goddamn bit.

“Yeji, I-” She licks at her lip, ready, willing-

Ryujin grabs at her waist with a hand. Her knuckles white around the black of the railing. And with no further fanfare, she spits it out like venom, with no small measure of shame or guilt or worry for how Yeji will take it - or worse: how she herself would react in the wake of admitting it aloud -

“I love you,” Ryujin says, and it pops out of her mouth as neatly as it had the first thousand times practicing alone in her car.

A blink, and another. The look on Yeji's face is hard and blank, as if she'd understood every syllable, but didn't hear it at all - maybe. Her gaze drops, it trails a path along the long line of Ryujin's pale neck. Of the two ways it could ever go in her head, stuck on loop for as long as she can remember, Ryujin had never considered that Yeji might turn this still and vacant. A sudden feeling, a pull or a grip, starts in the lowest part of Ryujin's guts.

"And not-," she hears her own voice falter, "like-"

Then - it's on the back of Ryujin's head and in her hair, a hand curled at the base of her skull and pulling her head a little downward and her, until their foreheads meet. And before she has a chance to walk it back - to stuff it down where it came from and seal the bottle tight - before she can clench her eyes, shake her head, and spit out anything else like the fact that there was not much that had to change, between them -

Yeji just says plainly: "Yeah, hun. Love you too."

And it's shockingly, the most painful thing - that she just squeezes her hand and pats her back like it's all they could ever be. Without even the wherewithal to reject her properly; to tell her something like "don't ever say that again, god," or "oh shit- Ryujin. Sorry. So, no," or at least to spit back with a scathing laugh: "welcome to the fucking party," like what she always does.

"Yeah." Yeji clears her throat quietly and starts retreating back from the brink - with no apparent aim but to pull away as she draws herself away from the warmth of Ryujin's space, "uh, don't forget to say hello to some of the staffers before they go home, okay?"

Ryujin is left with nothing but the air that follows Yeji's outline; left with her heart sinking into the depths of the night; left trying to make sense of the bitter sting ripping her chest in two.

Left with her own hopelessness - the pining - when Yeji walks away.

To be lonely, to be alone; neither are the same. 

And she hates knowing she is so incredibly both.

-

The worst part is she knows how it looks.

Her pace just on the verge of unsteady, the way her feet come up from the ground: Left foot, the right. The other. Back and back and forth again, faster and then slower and- fuck.

A damsel, severely distressed.

She sits down on the curb. She wants to cry, but even just the way she looks, carrying her heels and struggling with this fucking dress she wishes she'd never bothered with at all - oh, the tabloids would be sure every detail gets pinned under all the wrong lights. A breakdown would only serve to confirm all the right things; it would paint a story for anyone who cares enough to glean from her crestfallen posture and red cheeks that she is yes, a little broken, and that everyone wants to be loved and she's no different - and -

She sucks a breath. This time, when her tears fall, it's a quick, perfunctory action, no show in it.

Her palms rub her face - and she wipes, and wipes, and wipes - smearing at the foundation under her eyes before she takes a long drag of night air. Deep from her core, filling up her lungs until she can't hold anymore. Until it hurts and stings the backs of her ribs - it's enough for a single, fleeting moment. The street is mostly empty; an occasional car will speed by every now and then and it's those few and far between intervals that hurt most, that nearly shatter her: if she can barely do this, alone, how can she possibly be enough for anyone?

Ryujin’s smiling only to hold back her tears, and it fucking stings. She flicks hurriedly past the lock screen of her phone and swipes through the message stream with blurry eyes - there’s a whole host of people that want to know where the fuck she went, if she's safe, why she up and vanished the moment Yeji couldn't keep an eye on her. And well. The girl sighs.

Finds your name in her contacts and puts her thumb right beside it.

It rings exactly three times, and she hates the number. She hates how many things can be associated with that number in those seconds alone.

Four, the pause where you must have had the opportunity, but didn't decide to pick up - just leave it be. Then five - Ryujin is definitely no longer looking forward to any of this.

Six: it stops.

There's this crackle, and through the night -

"Just what brings you here, stranger?"

For an indistinct amount of time, Ryujin drifts in the whirlpool current of that question; it sinks her deeper, into the currents of your voice and the tone and what it's suggesting and demanding from her. All the things your voice is giving her permission to ask of and with and-

Until finally she answers back: "do you ever just, like, wish," a shallow pause for the hitch in her breath, "something, someone was a little more for you- or to- with you-"

The swell of a smile through the receiver; and you can't help your laugh, soft.

"Sometimes," is what you say, "that's just human, don't you think?"

She doesn't understand how something like love or life or desire should be a universal trait.

"Uh, maybe," she shrugs out, and thinks.

"It's pretty normal," you tell her.

Quiet, as if you were right in front of her.

"Look," you start, and you can hear how she sniffs her nose and swipes the pad of her hand right along the side of it, to catch anything stupid and stupid sounding leaking down to her upper lip. "You don't have to. Let's just hang out. Tell me anything."

And for once, she does.

She talks.

-

(The whole story.

From the first time Ryujin realizes the world is never going to be fair - that she shouldn't have to look at herself like she's unlovable because she's seen her friends be held as though they are - or at Yeji like she's completely unattainable or somehow, unlovable, and that someone as amazing as Yeji should have been loved from the moment she was born.

The rest comes through as fragments: the truth of her career. Yeji.

The balcony, the breeze, the bitter-fucking-disappointment.

And what came of that -

When Ryujin isn't a million and one words per minute, it feels, almost, it feels - she'd swear there was less noise in her own head: this thrumming in her brain has settled out; the walls around her and the echo coming off of them - the booming and pulsing - it's, gone.

Because even though there was an indistinct shape for where she had landed, in the aftermath, and nothing much had changed - all that did. You listen, and that alone makes it so you're both exactly where you’re supposed to be, even if this, tonight - you are unsure, if it will actually fix anything - if anything needs fixing at all.)

[basedkikuenjoyer]

A Tale of Two Hannya: Art Imitates Life

These are always kind of a trickier beast to write because by design the comparison casts a more negative light on a popular character. But they tend to be well received. Living near the path of peak totality for the big US eclipse, had me wanting to finish this one sitting in my drafts because well...we have both sun & moon themes as well as a dynamic of "upstaging" each other. Which is kinda cool. I really do think, when taken together, Kiku & Yamato give you one of the most interesting dynamics in this massive series despite the two faces almost never appearing together.

Let's step back a little though. Why? Why would our author structure so much of Luffy's story in Wano through the top two new faces for the arc? Almost splitting Luffy's story in half with mirror opposites; humble and helpful followed by flashy yet flawed. Pitting organic bonding against the spotlight. A very straightforward and earnest trans woman foiled by a deliberately inconsistent and ambiguous character falling somewhere you'd call transmasculine. Our Crane Wife and our Dragon's King's Daughter, forget the plot of One Piece for a moment...what's the reflection of our world they mirror?

As gross as it is to compare oneself to Doflamingo, I promise I'm going somewhere with this. And, to be fair I can think of a few specific people who'd make that type of comparison about me. I like to think I use my powers for good, but anyone with them would say that. Touched on it a little with the Otohime side story but over the 2010s I had my little strings in just about every corner of LGBT activism throughout a region that's now a solid gay haven in a conservative state. For the first half of that decade, it was thrust upon me because people saw how solid a representative a young, cute, well-spoken lady would be at diffusing old stereotypes. An MA in Political Science helped too.

Because it's currently Ramadan still, I'd like to share one story I feel was a high watermark and how it rippled in a way that is gonna shape my outlook here. When I noticed there was a shift. One I felt trepidation about aspects of initially and today feel vindicated seeing how Gen Z views their elders. It was Ramadan a fair few years ago now, while part of a board for something I got to know a local Muslim leader and his wife. They were used to inviting other community leaders to join them for Iftar, the fast-breaking meal. They wanted to show their young progressive members they were listening and respectfully invite someone trans, remember these are often very sex-segregated places. Even if there were some livid hardliners most of the women really liked me and you could tell it meant a lot to some of the older teen girls who really wanted to square more progressive beliefs with their faith.

Late 2010s, so if I told you there was backlash in queer circles guess who. More or less entirely people who'd fit that college radfem to transmasc mold. "I'd have gone to the women's side in solidarity and liberated those oppressed women being soo radical." "Don't you think what Rhea did was you know, kinda problematic? If I have to explain to you how it's low-key cultural appropriation I don't even..." "They only picked her because she acts like a little Barbie doll." Yes, that last one is peak feminism. They can call me wicked if they want; at least I was called to serve while they were all just rabble-rousers who decided they were the only morally pure enough ones to be local leaders. That's what this was all about, politics.

If you ask me personally about the current state of trans movements? It kinda comes down to that. Most Milennials, trans women, men, & even nonbinary folk, tend to use the community as a temporary safe haven but acceptance has come far enough it tends to stay temporary. Gender is but one aspect of our identity, the hugbox and group chats about pronouns only really feel like they're giving you something for so long. The holdout? In my experience that tends to be trans men or transmasc enbies who took a half-step before coming out in the relative privilege of radical feminist spaces offering a little space within. I don't have a whole lot of animosity towards these guys...it just feels like sometimes it becomes all of our problem when that radfem space pumped you full of a distorted vision of "male privilege" and you feel jilted you didn't get that by waking up one day and saying you are now man.

Was Eiichiro Oda going for all that? Fuck no. I was a longtime leader of a local movement, he's a cis author on the outside looking in. Better way these two make sense is more an author being aware enough (Japan had a similar trajectory over the last decade) these two serve well as standins for the extremes of what a teen today sees about this transgender community. Okama type caricatures just don't work anymore. Transmasc nearing 30 who feels like they don't even know what they want? Playing word games that feel like you never stopped and thought how they'd sound to other people? Chasing an idealized version of masculinity? It's not exactly an uncommon sentiment. It's a side-effect of finally getting that long sought visibility...scrutiny goes hand in hand.

It's a Tale of Two Hannya because it's weaving in the story of one community experiencing a Tale of Two Movements. Two movements that are at times diametrically opposed (foes). That's where the upstaging or "eclipse" aspect comes in. The way beats for one influence the other even without trying. Why Yamato's the one trying to find a place and Kiku's already dealing with average pressures of being a woman. Regardless of how you feel about that personally, you have to at least acknowledge this is the general impression teens today seem to have. Hypothetically, you could get the same effect between a more clear-cut trans man and someone kinda like Kamatari.

Ultimately, Wano is about who we are vs the roles we play. We see other places where themes of just saying you fill a role doesn't mean you are. I've said Yamato's a gentle critique of the extreme "you are what you say your are" side of trans movements. I understand why people would want to see things that way, but gender is a social phenomenon. For the record, I do think it low-key radiates dude energy to not care about shit like cannonballing tits out into the main bath, no one should have to act a certain way and all that. But it's a good pair for demonstrating where we're at in general. The emotions they evoke out of readers are a good reflection of where young men are kinda at on all this trans stuff. And both are still portrayed as cool, friendly people. But I do see where it's coming from when Oda shifts that classic immaturity element from Kiku more to Yamato.

[themerumeru]

About me

Social Media: Carrd ✩ X (Twitter) ✩ Pinterest

— Hello. My name is Melissa, but you can call me Mel, or Meru, or what you prefer. I'm fourteen years old and I have a lot of free time. I study psychology, french, spanish and my first language is brazilian portuguese, I actually was born and I live in Brazil, my actual dream is become somebody that help the others, but I have my own problems. I have bipolarity, severe depression, anxiety and psychosis, but I still live, even with all these problems, and I'm here to try to help other people too, and if you need someone to vent, you can ask me anything anonymously and I'll answer trying to help you the way I can. Feel free to vent to me anytime.

What do you like to do on your free time?

— I think I mostly like to play games and take a time to treat myself and drink some tea while watching something or listening to music, I love music.

Do you want friends?

— Of course I do! I'm very extrovert and if you don't have subjects, well, I do have a lot! Haha, I love to talk, actually, that's a bad thing about me if you don't talkative people.

Which subculture you're in?

— First of all, I'm learning things about the Kawaii subculture to try to identify myself as a gothic lolita, because I love their style and also, the story behind it. But I'm not sure if this is what I really want, because I keep changing my mind about it everytime.

What made you start to study psychology?

— Well, how can I explain this... I started to focus my attention on things about mental health to me, but I started to find it interesting and quite useful, then I helped some friends of mine and now I'm studying it, I really recommend it, because it's very interesting and useful, like, it's useful for everything on your life.

Some curiosities about you

— My favorite song of all times is Bohemian Rhapsody from Queen, my favorite band is Queen too, my favorite movie is "Me Before You" and my favorite book is also "Me Before You". My favorite color is green; I can see colors in smells but I don't have cinestesia; I'm eclectic, this means I hear every single gender of music; I love opposites attract couples, it's so cute! It's my favorite kind of couple (my bf is the opposite of me); I like to imitate characters, I actually know how to imitate Amai Odayaka voice lines; I love cute things and I love receiving gifts; I like Harry Potter, Star Wars, Marvel, DC and Lord Of The Rings at the same time; and, to end, I am genderfluid and pansexual.

[cursedvibes]

For character ask game, can I ask for Johan and Nina? Thx :D

Thanks for the Monster ask! I love talking about the twins :)

Johan

Sexuality Headcanon:

It's hard to say anything for certain with Johan's identity. How much is for show/acted and how much is his own genuine wants. It is very noticeable that when he goes to charm people (in a sexual way or otherwise) it's most often men, but it's difficult to say if that's because of personal preference or because they are just easier to manipulate. I would say there's a slight preference for men because going out of dates with Jan was absolutely not necessary, he could've gotten all the information he needed through regular persuasion or a casual chat. He also gives me strong ace vibes.

Gender Headcanon:

Also hard to put into words. I'd say either agender as in he really has none because he has made himself/become empty or bigender as in his own gender and the one of his sister. He does seem to prefer masculine or what is generally seen as boy's/men's clothes even when he was still living with his mother, but I don't know how much of that is his own will and how much is him just not wanting to stick out and fitting into society. I also wouldn't say he's solely wearing women's/girl's clothing because his mother raised him that way or because he wants to imitate his sister. Because the clothes he wears are different from Nina's. Hers are much more casual and unisex, while Johan deliberately goes into a more feminine direction. And in this case I don't think it's to fit in because he could do that perfectly well with Nina's clothing style as well.

A ship I have with said character:

Jan. Somehow I'm always gravitating towards murderer/sweet, naive and slightly delusional guy. I fully believe Jan could come around eventually to giving Johan another chance, seeing that Johan is able to be kind like how he helped his mother gain mental clarity. Johan just has to show that he will be murdering a little less in the future. But either way, I already like their interactions as is and I think the way Johan treats Jan is really interesting. He doesn't kill him, despite Jan knowing quite quite a bit about him and he even helps him before leaving Prague. There's definitely some potential.

A BROTP I have with said character:

Nina lol. I love these kinds of twisted, codependent twin relationships. And oh boy do they have trauma and drama between them. Honestly, the entire backstory about their mother's choice, Red Rose Mansion and their escape from Czechoslovakia alone is giving me so much food for thought. The fairy tales interwoven with it give it the extra surreal feeling, similar to how both of them see their childhood. The way both of their mentalities changed, the things both of them had to endure, the haunting imagery of Johan waiting alone in the empty apartment for Nina to return. It's just so incredibly good and the way you gradually find out about it is even better. Johan helped Nina by taking in her trauma (telling himself eventually it was his), but he also needed her to stay close and support him because he couldn't take it otherwise. Really one monster eating the other.

A NOTP I have with said character:

Johan/Tenma. I don't like Tenma and idk I just never saw any basis for it. Johan fixates on Tenma as well, but I don't see anything sexual or romantic in that.

A random headcanon:

I think he wears women's clothing or lives as Nina or under some other women's name even when it isn't necessarily benefitting his plan. He could do the same thing as a man, but he just decides to be a woman sometimes because why not (people tend to treat him nicer or overlook him easier too).

General Opinion over said character:

Love him, one of the best villains in anime and manga.

Nina

Sexuality Headcanon:

Either bi or a lesbian. She probably isn't quite sure about it yet either. I'd say she's more into girls because all her attempts at dating guys seemed a bit...strained. Like it didn't feel quite natural, even when Johan wasn't inserting himself into the situation.

Gender Headcanon:

She seems pretty happy as a cis girl. Although I wonder if things might be different if Johan and her roles were switched. She always had a strong sense of identity and internal strength though, so she would've probably processed such a situation very differently from Johan.

A ship I have with said character:

Lotte. She clearly has a huge crush on Nina and as far as love interest go, she seems like the best option. Relatively well adjusted while also adventurous and knows how to handle Nina when she's having a little existential crisis. Now Nina just has to be made more aware of Lotte's feelings for her...she can be a bit oblivious, but to be fair, she was hunting her murderous brother, so understandably a bit preoccupied.

A BROTP I have with said character:

Johan :)

A NOTP I have with said character:

Tenma again. Similar reason as with Johan. Sure they are nice to each other, but I really don't see anything else there.

A random headcanon:

I think her mother knew who she was giving away and she didn't do it because she doesn't love Nina but because she thought she would be more likely to handle Red Rose Mansion and Bonaparte as well as you possibly could. Like she wouldn't be as easily influenced by the picture book, not to the point of harming herself and others at least. You can see at times that Nina also has a murderous side to her, but she has it way better under control than Johan.

General Opinion over said character:

Like her. I used to not be that much of a fan, but she has really grown on me over the past years.

[starsmuserainbow]

Encyclopedia of Tamaran - Honnatarl

Repost from before this blog was a multi. Basically, this is a similar ‘series’ to the ‘Headcanon Time’-things, just posts that might occasionally appear on my blog and talk about some details of tamaraneans or their world, or in the case of the 'Encyclopedia'-entries, but more about one specific thing or creature.

This post here is made to introduce you to the Honnatarl, a tamaranean creature that has similarities to the earthen reindeer.

More below the cut, as usual - even links to two awesome refs that amazing people did for me that I still love very very much!

Even back when Tamaran still was a luscious tropics-like planet basically all-around, it was a rare sight to spot a Honnatarl, and it was even rarer (if at all possible) to be able to approach one or try to befriend or catch it. Due to the nature of the species, the tamaraneans so far have not been able to say for sure if the species has died out or is still existing on their world, after the catastrophe.

Their fur is of a dark brown color, and usually there is a flower-like pattern on their backside. Unlike most species of reindeer that exist on Earth, a Honnatarl always has antlers, regardless of its gender. Seasonally, there are protrusions growing on the antlers, that resemble red flowers, though most likely aren’t actual flowers. That’s only guessing though, since no tamaranean so far has managed to research those protusions. Their tail is mostly resembling what the earthen bunnies have, and their ears are somewhat similar to cats’ ears, including the movement according to the mood. Their nose by default glows faintly red in the dark, and the Honnatarld (that’s how you call multiple of them, by the way) are able to make the nose glow stronger if they wish. It serves also as a form of communication within the species, to blink the glow of the nose in patterns. Some tamaraneans have before tried to imitate the glowing with their own energy, in attempts to both understand the Honnatarl’s communication and also to perhaps approach one without it running away, but it is either simply not similar enough to have the hands (or eyes) glow instead, or they didn’t understand the patterns as well as they thought.

Most times, it is rather difficult to tell the males and females apart - the male antlers are a hint bigger, but not as much that it’s directly recognizeable; and the females usually carry markings throughout their body that can glow, but unless it is one of those times when the markings do glow, they are only barely visible through the fur. It is unclear when, why or how exactly it happens, but the markings of the female Honnatarld are on occasion glowing in a brilliant gold, which then of course makes a defining of that one as a female rather easy. The males do not carry such markings, or perhaps simply not in a way that is even in the slightest visible through their fur, and definitely not capable of glowing. While any earthling might expect a species that is as reindeer-like as the Honnatarld to have hooves, they are in fact not having such. Their feet are ending in dexterous toes with talons.

(Two awesome people offered to do reference-pictures for me for this species, so here are the links! Here, and here!)

The Honnatarld are very timid, perhaps skittish, creatures, and tend to flee the scene from even the slightest noises. Since they can move fast, and are also capable of flight, it is rare that any potential danger - or anyone, really - can keep up with them. While rather rare to come close to for others, they do occasionally meet with another of their own species. There has not been any sighting of a larger group yet, though, so presumably they prefer small groups, if any.

They are herbivores, and their favourite food is Jellorel (see here for a little bit of details on that) - they usually take it before it falls from the trees.

[lgchiro]

hi folks! i'm nine (he/him, cst) and i just jumped into this group headfirst so bear with me while i find my footing. i never thought i'd make it past the point distribution... i'd like to humbly introduce you to my sweet nerd, hiro! check out some quick info under the read more if you like, and please plot with me, thank you. 👀

first, the basics.

born nakagawa hiroto in osaka, japan, in november 2003.

was born to a single mother who quickly realized she couldn't raise a child, so her brother (hiroto's uncle) raised hiroto instead.

hiro's brother, technically his cousin, is around 3-4 years older than him.

goes by hiro to everyone he works with.

main skills are rapping and composing/producing.

fluent in japanese, semi-fluent in korean, and knows some english but doesn't speak it well.

find him in the studio every free second he's not practicing. this boy doesn't sleep.

pretty damn good at dancing too. he doesn't have the most pristine technique but boy can perform. he knows a little bit of martial arts and can breakdance like a beast.

moved to SK at age 16 to go to a performing arts school.

auditioned for and signed to legacy in january 2022.

personality:

big 3 signs are sagittarius sun, libra moon, & capricorn rising.

adventurous, self-aware, & dedicated are the main traits to gather from those.

a smart, inventive kid with very little common sense sometimes.

realistic but a bit cynical? his glass is like 49% full.

very into being analytical and a nerd about poetry and art. follows many tech blogs. checks them a few times a day.

making music is his true passion, and shh but someday he may want to make his own music label. he doesn't want that rumor getting out (and will deny it if it does) because he doesn't want to seem ungrateful for the opportunities he has now.

good at imitating animal noises. (ask him to do his elephant, horse, and seal impressions.)

when he's nervous, he forgets to eat.

really heckin dedicated and almost perfectionistic. will get stuck on one 8-count of choreography and won't go forward until it's perfect. he learns a little slower than other trainees & idols. he has a lot of room for improvement here.

plots:

maybe his older brother or potentially other siblings? the brother should be born around 1999-2000 and ofc japanese, + other siblings can be discussed.

one or some of the first people he met when auditioning for legacy (in seoul in jan 2022). they have remained close because of the borderline trauma they went through together during the audition process.

hyungs & noonas that help take care of hiro, because he's really a lost puppy a lot of the time.

fellow songwriters & music makers. find him in the studio at all hours when he's not training. on that note, fellow nocturnals & insomniacs to keep him company.

fellow japanese pals! hiro loves and misses home a lot, but these people make him feel less homesick.

someone who helps him when he doesn't pick up the choreo right away or misses something, even if they have to stay late at practice. he generally is a fast learner, but not as quick to pick it up as most of his fellow trainees.

people to tutor him in korean and/or english. additionally, he can tutor people learning japanese.

as far as romantic things go, i really want hiro hopelessly (or not so hopelessly) pining after somebody (any gender). whether it's unrequited or not, noticed by them or not, give me angsty they'll never notice or like me feelings for hiro.

fellow tech geeks. hiro always has the trendiest electronics and envies people that do when he doesn't.

yknow what? i'm better working these out with other people so PLEASE contact me via dms or add me on discord if you'd like to come up with something! my discord handle is iranoveroprah !

if you'd like to know more about hiro, feel free to ask!

like this if you're interested in plotting and i'll reach out 🥹

[queer-advice-hotline]

hii!! apologies in advance for the long ask- i am a rambler.

i’m genderfluid (any/all pronouns, afab (relevant to the discussion)) and so the idea of physically transitioning is. weird for me. because while some days i definitely want to be Shaped Different, i’m usually neutral and sometimes even euphoric to exist in my current body. because of this, my transition has been mostly social- i kept my name, got more pronouns, and started dressing in a way that made me happy- and i’m pretty chill with it! i don’t plan on starting t or anything permanent like that. HOWEVER, i’ve been looking at photos of people post-top surgery and there’s a part of me that REALLY wants that. i’m pretty happy with how my chest is at the moment (i don’t bind, and i don’t need to wear bras so no big dysphoria there), but i for sure have days where i wanna be completely flat chested. something as permanent as top surgery wouldn’t work for me, though. my “goal body” changes all the time. however, i still wanna be able to look at my chest, see myself (trans) there, and be proud of that part of me. i think even moreso than the flatness, the thing i’m most jealous of with top surgery photos is the scars. i know for a lot of trans folks the scars are a “downside,” but i’ve always found them gorgeous and a wonderful symbol of trans joy. i’d love to be able to keep my chest shape, but have top surgery scars as well. i’m considering getting them tattooed, but there’s a few things i’m still hung up on.

1.) i don’t know whether i’d want the scars to look realistic or more cartoony. i’m worried i’ll pick one and wish i picked the other.

2.) it still won’t be socially acceptable for me to be shirtless in public because i’ll still have visible boobs and i resent that idea

3.) i don’t really just want an imitation of the scar, i want Top Surgery Scars. if i get them tattooed, there won’t be any actual scarring. it’ll be visual, but the tactile part is important to me, too- the raised skin and all that that you can actually feel.

4.) i have a fear of needles, and finding a tattoo artist who is both willing to tattoo top surgery scars on me AND help me accommodate that fear sounds like a very tall task. also, i’ve never had a tattoo and don’t know how i’d respond to it!

i’m a chronic overthinker (if you can’t tell) and before i can even start to put this plan into action i manage to completely overwhelm myself with these worries. i know i want this, i have for at least a year now, but i have no idea how to go about getting it. how would i start looking for the right artist? better yet, is there some procedure i could get that actually gives me the scars without changing anything else? i know some people do scarring stuff for gender reasons, but i have no clue if it’s an option for me. any advice about any of this would be great. thanks so much! <3

There a few options I've found to recommend to you:

Intentional scarring for aesthetic purposes definitely exists, if that sounds like what you want. For that I would recommend look up some information on intentional medical scarring, there are websites where you can read for some information.

You can get breast reduction surgery, to get the actual scars while keeping some of the shape.

If you decide to get top surgery, you can get breast forms, to keep the shape when you want it, while being able to be shirtless, like you said you wanted.

Tattoo artists can definitely accommodate a fear of needles, that's super common. For that, call find some artists whose work you like, via social media, the internet, however you like. You can call the tattoo shop, email, or dm the artist to get in contact with them and explain your fear and what you need for that, as well as what you want done. they will be able to explain if they can/will do that and what accommodations they can offer.

As for the cartoon vs realistic tattoo, that's a personal choice, but having it edited or redone is always an option.

[grey-lark]

absolutely agree with you on hopper’s daemon being a st bernard, that’s so accurate. curious about steve’s parents animals and steve’s daemon’s name choice! also, I’m not that familiar with the daemon universe, but it is considered weird for your daemon to be the same gender as you? since you added that extra part to will’s bit.

- bug anon

Hi Bug! Lol yeah Hopper so obviously a huge rescue dog. Very cuddly. Much protect. Also, as is par the course for me things got long, so more under the cut!

I'll admit I didn't look into Steve's parent's animals as much as some of them, and they're more based on my head canons than any actual canon references, since there's only, like, 2 lines about Steve's parents. Minks are mostly known for being used to make expensive, high quality, fur coats, while minks themselves are very territorial weasels-sque creatures. I chose it because really liked the idea of his dad being something that's seen as a status symbol, but is actually kind of an asshole. Orchid Mantises (manti? mantiss?) imitate orchid flowers, and are beautiful, delicate looking creatures - they're also some of the most aggressive and precise hunters out there. I like to head canon Steve's mom as highly focused on appearances but also secretly fairly cunning. Also, I feel as if her being a highly predatory insect sort of highlights she's probably not the most attentive of mothers.

I'll admit Steve's daemon name actually came out be trying things and it just sort of feeling right? But I do really like it after researching more. According to Wikipedia, Rebecca can mean "Moderator", To Tie, Noose, To Bind, Captivating, Strong Combatant, Hearty - all things I think describe Steve really well. Captivating, Strong Combatant, and Hearty I think are fairly obvious in canon and people have already talked about the emotional gymnastics Steve tends to do to cater to groups for Moderator to fit, but I also think To Tie works as well. I haven't run the numbers, but I'd bet Steve's probably one of the people who talks to the most other characters in the show? He's definitely in the most groups, with a different collection of people he's partnered with each season, and I think makes him sort of good link between most of the different teams that form each season, tying them all together. Also, in His Dark Materials (the series daemons come from) daemon names can vary widely from common names, to objects, to fantasy-esque conglomerations of syllables. I think the Harringtons probably fall into the first category, where good, all American, "normal" names are what they go with. Also, Bex as a nickname just sounds really sporty and peppy to me and I love that for him haha.

Also, yeah in the series daemons are usually the opposite gender of their humans (I guess non-binary peoples' daemons are also non-binary but in a somehow opposite way???? Haha, yeah the early 2000s YA novels unsurprisingly don't consider that). Daemons that are the same gender happen, but are rare enough that they're considered an aberration. I think it's hinted at that same gender daemons are associated with homosexuality, but I at least like to believe that it's just something that happens sometimes and the association is more along the lines of when people assume a boy is gay because he likes art. Either way, I feel like Will having a male daemon would really highlight how he's considered such a "freak" and also be one of the reasons people called him the f-word in season 1 (which i know was period accurate, but still, ooofff)

[lotusmuses]

i have a whole au that involves vanitas being transmasc (specifically masc/vers/neutra-adrogyne gender expression and agender identity) so i'll list some of the details (a lot of it is pre "transition" idk if i can call it transition because he never really did a transition?) also this is the first time i have a fully fleshed out idea of a trans au so please tell me if some things are inaccurate (though the androgyne expression, agender identity is something i've been self questioning a bit):

his birth name is Artemis

he didn't present as a guy until after Luna and Mikhail's deaths so Misha calls him sister

in Vani's eyes, Artemis died with her mother and brother and vampire doctor Vanitas was born

that scene where Misha imitates vanitas? but "oh! i was trying to act like my sister! hm... i suppose you'd know her better as my brother?" he's honestly very angry with Vanitas about this (not even bc Vani is trans but because vani isn't the same as he remembers; how can he go back to the happiest moments of his life if his sibling is different)

little Artemis wanted to be a boy to protect her little brother and so nobody would look down on her back when she trained with the chasseurs

when Number 69 first told the blue moon vampire her name Blue literally got so happy and said "Artemis! like the goddess that pulls the moon.. perhaps it was fate for our paths to intertwine haha!"

but it took a while before she told her brother and new mom her name

trigger warning; he never physically transitioned of his own choice but the doctor's experiments.... well let's say they did more than just inject blue blood into Number 69. after all what does an experiment need a sex and gender for?

before the vampire killed her dad and the others of the travelling show, Artemis was also in the show as an aerialist and acrobat. it was something she truly loved.

it's the reason why you can always find vanitas on a roof or high places when he's overwhelmed (also why he can stand on the top of an airship without batting an eye)

often Luna would come to the roof as well to comfort the child (bringing mikhail along if he was still awake) — they would sometimes talk to Artemis or sometimes just look at the night sky with her in silence

Luna also liked to sing to the children, Vanitas will hum the song when he's alone on a roof

also because of this, what he lacks in strength, he's makes up with agility and reflexes

Artemis never called Luna mother or father but she did wonder if this is what she could've experienced if her birth didn’t kill her mother

mikhail also wanted a lunar name like Luna and Artemis so they decided to call him Charon (a moon of pluto and a greek psychopomp; references that mikhail actually did die but is currently revived temporarily). he decided he preferred misha though

vanitas never calls his brother misha because he understands that the boy's mother called him that to prentend he was a girl. instead he called him mika (mikhail was still very excited that his sibling finally used an endearing nickname for him)

Vanitas never had dysphoria but he considered Artemis too weak for trusting and caring for people deeply and that she is a vital part of the memories he wants to keep buried. so if someone called him by his dead name.... run. we all know what he feels towards anyone who wants to know his past.

if he's okay with a person knowing his past he's okay with them using any pronouns for him though he/him is their most preferred. he feels quite awkward about using the name Artemis again because it reconnects him with Luna more (in this au he's no longer human and is the new blue moon vamp [thanks to the parade people- naenia, grandpa de sade, etc]; noe will still kill him but not yet) but if you have a vvv close relationship, he'll allow it. please be careful with the trust they placed in you.

(another thing is that his hair turns white when he uses the book a lot now)

after being saved by Luna, Artemis grew her bangs out (it having been cut so horribly simply so it wouldn't get in the way of 'procedures')

he would have kept his hair long but he didn’t like the feeling of it in his face so he gave himself bangs again and keeps the rest tied (he's not very good at cutting his hair so he just keeps it the way it was when he was with Moreau)

only Jeanne knows he's trans (bc of the cabin scene)

and murr i guess (canon that he only likes women and vani)

eventually everyone else will learn his past as well. and while they are shocked, it does explains certain peculiarities about him

oh! remember that scene when he says he cures vampires as revenge to Luna? it's because Luna once told them that she no longer resents those of the red moon and that while she may not regret cursing them, she'd never do it again-

"Artemis... in my years. I've learned that the best revenge is to prove someone wrong... to be kind. Never be the person they think you are. I know the feeling of being ostracized by my own kind. Do not let that anger overtake you. One day you'll meet those who make you realise that the world isn't as harsh as you thought, just as I have with you and your brother."

when her true name got tainted she went back to the strong resentment. Vanitas' "revenge" is against the corrupted Luna and every vampire that expects the one of the blue moon to harm them

he saves vampires as a promise to get 'revenge' on his mother, the vampire that showed him kindness, the corrupted vampire that killed his little brother. revenge against the humans that thought him weak. revenge on his abusers. revenge on the chasseurs that taught him hatred. revenge on the version of himself that hates humans and vampire alike.

this promise was the last thing they told the vampire before he killed them

had luna still retained sanity after making Vanitas a part of the blue moon clan, she would've been so very proud of him in that moment

the revenge that Vanitas wants in return for being the antagonist of everyone is to finally be reunited with his family. he hopes that his first true close friend, Noe, can grant him that act of kindness.

saw someone say promises of death is his love language and they're absolutely right

Hope you all enjoy this!

[risagerbirk84]

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[lakedo]

Hey people, guess what?

I just realised that most of you are not mind-readers, so here are some HCs of my Ocs that I never posted, that were always in my mind.

(Also I’m bored, I have to wait 40 minutes without doing anything.) - Long test

Tfu is the only one I have a 'human version', or at least some little Headcanons on how would she look like: - Black short messy curly hair - Pale skin (it looks grey in drawings) - A scare on her left eye (she got that scare while practicing with her knife) don’t worry, she can see - Dark green emerald eyes ( don’t know how to describe it. Here a code #327a4e <- kinda that kind of green) - All her t-shirts are yellow, and has two favourite hoodies, both black. Other clothes have dull colours - No uncomfortable clothes - A necklace, as a lucky charm (she is superstitious) - No jewels, piercings, or something special, she likes staying 'natural'

El is physically handsome (why? Why not?), but no one is going to tell him. Unnamed considers him a kid Mindyll is way too shy to tell him, also she knows only 5 people, she can’t tell how an handsome person is like Rakidi thinks El already knows

El and Mindyll are 18, Rakidi 19, but since they are created and not born, their mentality is the same of a thirteen year old. Also they won’t age (for now). Unnamed is 22, she also won’t age (also for now)

They all live in the same house, but Mindyll and El like to go outside, Rakidi goes around the internet for almost all the day and Unnamed stays all day at home, unless someone is in trouble

Rakidi likes staying in weird poses, because he feels cool. He doesn’t know his back will hurt one day…

Rakidi is a Måneskin fan like me, we like singing their songs, but he sings way better than me

El is scared of birds, but he can imitate them very well

Mindyll has always cold hands, while El is always warm (somehow)

Unnamed hurt many people in the past, but now has stopped, because she just wants to stay with his brother

I think someone misunderstood this thing: Tfu doesn’t call herself like that. If you ask for her name she’ll simply reply that she doesn’t have one. Also she doesn’t know we call her Tfu/Unnamed

No one now remembers of her name, except of herself (I wanted to give her an ex-name, for a while I thought to call her like one of my friends on Tumblr (nickname that I won’t mention because they want to become famous without being known by people, you know who you are and I know you don’t hate me because of this, you little naughty cinnamon roll :P) but then I said “nah, let’s just say that no one remembers.”:) .)

I think I’ve already mentioned it, but here, have this information before Unnamed finds me: Unnamed has a secret crush on Victim. Yes, that one Victim from Alan Becker. It’s more a celebrity-crush. And Tumblr is FULL of fanfics, comics, AUs with Vic, so yeah, she’s kinda in paradise rn. Please don’t tell her I told you about this.

El is incapable of lying. He just doesn’t understand the point of it, also he’s kinda just a little innocent kid.

Rakidi sometimes acts like a spoiled kid.

El sometimes is jealous, because he thinks Mindyll prefers Rakidi. Rakidi just doesn’t care, he is NOT trying to have Mindyll as a girlfriend, and he never experienced the feeling of ‘having a crush' (totally not planning something to break the heart of my poor Rakidi)

Tfu has trust issues (I mean, kinda obvious, but maybe someone doesn’t know)

They are stickfigures, they don’t have gender, so I can call them with pronouns, but there aren’t 'males' or 'females', just sticks. Rakidi is the only one who understood a little about the concept of 'gender', because he goes around internet A LOT.

Rakidi is a hollowhead, right? Hollowheads get angry and feel strange (or something) when you pass your hand through their head, right? Well, not Rakidi! He likes putting his own hand, arm or other objects through his head. Yes, he feels a little strange sometimes, but he likes to do it in front of El (because he’s a hollowhead too)and Unnamed (because she feels strange thinking about something that passes through your empty head)

Wow, it’s quite long, but idc. Maybe a part 2? Maybe another day… but I’m not sure.

[bao3bei4]

fan language: the victorian imaginary and cnovel fandom

there’s this pinterest image i’ve seen circulating a lot in the past year i’ve been on fandom social media. it’s a drawn infographic of a, i guess, asian-looking woman holding a fan in different places relative to her face to show what the graphic helpfully calls “the language of the fan.”

people like sharing it. they like thinking about what nefarious ancient chinese hanky code shenanigans their favorite fan-toting character might get up to⁠—accidentally or on purpose. and what’s the problem with that?

the problem is that fan language isn’t chinese. it’s victorian. and even then, it’s not really quite victorian at all. 

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

fans served a primarily utilitarian purpose throughout chinese history. of course, most of the surviving fans we see⁠—and the types of fans we tend to care about⁠—are closer to art pieces. but realistically speaking, the majority of fans were made of cheaper material for more mundane purposes. in china, just like all around the world, people fanned themselves. it got hot!

so here’s a big tipoff. it would be very difficult to use a fan if you had an elaborate language centered around fanning yourself.

you might argue that fine, everyday working people didn’t have a fan language. but wealthy people might have had one. the problem we encounter here is that fans weren’t really gendered. (caveat here that certain types of fans were more popular with women. however, those tended to be the round silk fans, ones that bear no resemblance to the folding fans in the graphic). no disrespect to the gnc old man fuckers in the crowd, but this language isn’t quite masc enough for a tool that someone’s dad might regularly use.

folding fans, we know, reached europe in the 17th century and gained immense popularity in the 18th. it was there that fans began to take on a gendered quality. ariel beaujot describes in their 2012 victorian fashion accessories how middle class women, in the midst of a top shortage, found themselves clutching fans in hopes of securing a husband.

she quotes an article from the illustrated london news, suggesting “women ‘not only’ used fans to ‘move the air and cool themselves but also to express their sentiments.’” general wisdom was that the movement of the fan was sufficiently expressive that it augmented a woman’s displays of emotion. and of course, the more english audiences became aware that it might do so, the more they might use their fans purposefully in that way.

notice, however, that this is no more codified than body language in general is. it turns out that “the language of the fan” was actually created by fan manufacturers at the turn of the 20th century⁠—hundreds of years after their arrival⁠ in europe—to sell more fans. i’m not even kidding right now. the story goes that it was louis duvelleroy of the maison duvelleroy who decided to include pamphlets on the language with each fan sold.

interestingly enough, beaujot suggests that it didn’t really matter what each particular fan sign meant. gentlemen could tell when they were being flirted with. as it happens, meaningful eye contact and a light flutter near the face may be a lingua franca.

so it seems then, the language of the fan is merely part of this victorian imaginary we collectively have today, which in turn itself was itself captivated by china.

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

victorian references come up perhaps unexpectedly often in cnovel fandom, most often with regards to modesty.

it’s a bit of an awkward reference considering that chinese traditional fashion⁠—and the ambiguous time periods in which these novels are set⁠—far predate victorian england. it is even more awkward considering that victoria and her covered ankles did um. imperialize china.

but nonetheless, it is common. and to make a point about how ubiquitous it is, here is a link to the twitter search for “sqq victorian.” sqq is the fandom abbreviation for shen qingqiu, the main character of the scum villain’s self-saving system, by the way.

this is an awful lot of results for a search involving a chinese man who spends the entire novel in either real modern-day china or fantasy ancient china. that’s all i’m going to say on the matter, without referencing any specific tweet.

i think people are aware of the anachronism. and i think they don’t mind. even the most cursory research reveals that fan language is european and a revisionist fantasy. wikipedia can tell us this⁠—i checked!

but it doesn’t matter to me whether people are trying to make an internally consistent canon compliant claim, or whether they’re just free associating between fan facts they know. it is, instead, more interesting to me that people consistently refer to this particular bit of history. and that’s what i want to talk about today⁠—the relationship of fandom today to this two hundred odd year span of time in england (roughly stuart to victorian times) and england in that time period to its contemporaneous china.

things will slip a little here. victorian has expanded in timeframe, if only because random guys posting online do not care overly much for respect for the intricacies of british history. china has expanded in geographic location, if only because the english of the time themselves conflated china with all of asia.

in addition, note that i am critiquing a certain perspective on the topic. this is why i write about fan as white here⁠—not because all fans are white⁠—but because the tendencies i’m examining have a clear historical antecedent in whiteness that shapes how white fans encounter these novels.

i’m sure some fans of color participate in these practices. however i don’t really care about that. they are not its main perpetrators nor its main beneficiaries. so personally i am minding my own business on that front.

it’s instead important to me to illuminate the linkage between white as subject and chinese as object in history and in the present that i do argue that fannish products today are built upon.

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

it’s not radical, or even new at all, for white audiences to consume⁠—or create their own versions of⁠—chinese art en masse. in many ways the white creators who appear to owe their whole style and aesthetic to their asian peers in turn are just the new chinoiserie.

this is not to say that white people can’t create asian-inspired art. but rather, i am asking you to sit with the discomfort that you may not like the artistic company you keep in the broader view of history, and to consider together what is to be done about that.

now, when i say the new chinoiserie, i first want to establish what the original one is. chinoiserie was a european artistic movement that appeared coincident with the rise in popularity of folding fans that i described above. this is not by coincidence; the european demand for asian imports and the eventual production of lookalikes is the movement itself. so: when we talk about fans, when we talk about china (porcelain), when we talk about tea in england⁠—we are talking about the legacy of chinoiserie.

there are a couple things i want to note here. while english people as a whole had a very tenuous knowledge of what china might be, their appetites for chinoiserie were roughly coincident with national relations with china. as the relationship between england and china moved from trade to out-and-out wars, chinoiserie declined in popularity until china had been safely subjugated once more by the end of the 19th century.

the second thing i want to note on the subject that contrary to what one might think at first, the appeal of chinoiserie was not that it was foreign. eugenia zuroski’s 2013 taste for china examines 18th century english literature and its descriptions of the according material culture with the lens that chinese imports might be formative to english identity, rather than antithetical to it.

beyond that bare thesis, i think it’s also worthwhile to extend her insight that material objects become animated by the literary viewpoints on them. this is true, both in a limited general sense as well as in the sense that english thinkers of the time self-consciously articulated this viewpoint. consider the quote from the illustrated london news above⁠—your fan, that object, says something about you. and not only that, but the objects you surround yourself with ought to.

it’s a bit circular, the idea that written material says that you should allow written material to shape your understanding of physical objects. but it’s both 1) what happened, and 2) integral, i think, to integrating a fannish perspective into the topic.

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

japanning is the name for the popular imitative lacquering that english craftspeople developed in domestic response to the demand for lacquerware imports. in the eighteenth century, japanning became an artform especially suited for young women. manuals were published on the subject, urging young women to learn how to paint furniture and other surfaces, encouraging them to rework the designs provided in the text.

it was considered a beneficial activity for them; zuroski describes how it was “associated with commerce and connoisseurship, practical skill and aesthetic judgment.” a skillful japanner, rather than simply obscuring what lay underneath the lacquer, displayed their superior judgment in how they chose to arrange these new canonical figures and effects in a tasteful way to bring out the best qualities of them.

zuroski quotes the first english-language manual on the subject, written in 1688, which explains how japanning allows one to:

alter and correct, take out a piece from one, add a fragment to the next, and make an entire garment compleat in all its parts, though tis wrought out of never so many disagreeing patterns.

this language evokes a very different, very modern practice. it is this english reworking of an asian artform that i think the parallels are most obvious.

white people, through their artistic investment in chinese material objects and aesthetics, integrated them into their own subjectivity. these practices came to say something about the people who participated in them, in a way that had little to do with the country itself. their relationship changed from being a “consumer” of chinese objects to becoming the proprietor of these new aesthetic signifiers.

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

i want to talk about this through a few pairs of tensions on the subject that i think characterize common attitudes then and now.

first, consider the relationship between the self and the other: the chinese object as something that is very familiar to you, speaking to something about your own self vs. the chinese object as something that is fundamentally different from you and unknowable to you. 

consider: [insert character name] is just like me. he would no doubt like the same things i like, consume the same cultural products. we are the same in some meaningful way vs. the fast standard fic disclaimer that “i tried my best when writing this fic, but i’m a english-speaking westerner, and i’m just writing this for fun so...... [excuses and alterations the person has chosen to make in this light],” going hand-in-hand with a preoccupation with authenticity or even overreliance on the unpaid labor of chinese friends and acquaintances. 

consider: hugh honour when he quotes a man from the 1640s claiming “chinoiserie of this even more hybrid kind had become so far removed from genuine Chinese tradition that it was exported from India to China as a novelty to the Chinese themselves” 

these tensions coexist, and look how they have been resolved.

second, consider what we vest in objects themselves: beaujot explains how the fan became a sexualized, coquettish object in the hands of a british woman, but was used to great effect in gilbert and sullivan’s 1885 mikado to demonstrate the docility of asian women. 

consider: these characters became expressions of your sexual desires and fetishes, even as their 5’10 actors themselves are emasculated.

what is liberating for one necessitates the subjugation and fetishization of the other. 

third, consider reactions to the practice: enjoyment of chinese objects as a sign of your cosmopolitan palate vs “so what’s the hype about those ancient chinese gays” pop culture explainers that addressed the unconvinced mainstream.

consider: zuroski describes how both english consumers purchased china in droves, and contemporary publications reported on them. how: 

It was in the pages of these papers that the growing popularity of Chinese things in the early eighteenth century acquired the reputation of a “craze”; they portrayed china fanatics as flawed, fragile, and unreliable characters, and frequently cast chinoiserie itself in the same light.

referenda on fannish behavior serve as referenda on the objects of their devotion, and vice versa. as the difference between identity and fetish collapses, they come to be treated as one and the same by not just participants but their observers. 

at what point does mxtx fic cease to be chinese? 

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

finally, it seems readily apparent that attitudes towards chinese objects may in fact have something to do with attitudes about china as a country. i do not want to suggest that these literary concerns are primarily motivated and begot by forces entirely divorced from the real mechanics of power. 

here, i want to bring in edward said, and his 1993 culture and imperialism. there, he explains how power and legitimacy go hand in hand. one is direct, and one is purely cultural. he originally wrote this in response to the outsize impact that british novelists have had in the maintenance of empire and throughout decolonization. literature, he argues, gives rise to powerful narratives that constrain our ability to think outside of them.

there’s a little bit of an inversion at play here. these are chinese novels, actually. but they’re being transformed by white narratives and artists. and just as i think the form of the novel is important to said’s critique, i think there’s something to be said about the form that fic takes and how it legitimates itself.

bound up in fandom is the idea that you have a right to create and transform as you please. it is a nice idea, but it is one that is directed towards a certain kind of asymmetry. that is, one where the author has all the power. this is the narrative we hear a lot in the history of fandom⁠—litigious authors and plucky fans, fanspaces always under attack from corporate sanitization.

meanwhile, said builds upon raymond schwab’s narrative of cultural exchange between european writers and cultural products outside the imperial core. said explains that fundamental to these two great borrowings (from greek classics and, in the so-called “oriental renaissance” of the late 18th, early 19th centuries from “india, china, japan, persia, and islam”) is asymmetry. 

he had argued prior, in orientalism, that any “cultural exchange” between “partners conscious of inequality” always results in the suffering of the people. and here, he describes how “texts by dead people were read, appreciated, and appropriated” without the presence of any actual living people in that tradition. 

i will not understate that there is a certain economic dynamic complicating this particular fannish asymmetry. mxtx has profited materially from the success of her works, most fans will not. also secondly, mxtx is um. not dead. LMAO.

but first, the international dynamic of extraction that said described is still present. i do not want to get overly into white attitudes towards china in this post, because i am already thoroughly derailed, but i do believe that they structure how white cnovel fandom encounters this texts.

at any rate, any profit she receives is overwhelmingly due to her domestic popularity, not her international popularity. (i say this because many of her international fans have never given her a cent. in fact, most of them have no real way to.) and moreover, as we talk about the structure of english-language fandom, what does it mean to create chinese cultural products without chinese people? 

as white people take ownership over their versions of stories, do we lose something? what narratives about engagement with cnovels might exist outside of the form of classic fandom?

i think a lot of people get the relationship between ideas (the superstructure) and production (the base) confused. oftentimes they will lob in response to criticism, that look! this fic, this fandom, these people are so niche, and so underrepresented in mainstream culture, that their effects are marginal. i am not arguing that anyone’s cql fic causes imperialism. (unless you’re really annoying. then it’s anyone’s game) 

i’m instead arguing something a little bit different. i think, given similar inputs, you tend to get similar outputs. i think we live in the world that imperialism built, and we have clear historical predecessors in terms of white appetites for creating, consuming, and transforming chinese objects. 

we have already seen, in the case of the fan language meme that began this post, that sometimes we even prefer this white chinoiserie. after all, isn’t it beautiful, too? 

i want to bring discomfort to this topic. i want to reject the paradigm of white subject and chinese object; in fact, here in this essay, i have tried to reverse it.

if you are taken aback by the comparisons i make here, how can you make meaningful changes to your fannish practice to address it? 

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

some concluding thoughts on the matter, because i don’t like being misunderstood! 

i am not claiming white fans cannot create fanworks of cnovels or be inspired by asian art or artists. this essay is meant to elaborate on the historical connection between victorian england and cnovel characters and fandom that others have already popularized.

i don’t think people who make victorian jokes are inherently bad or racist. i am encouraging people to think about why we might make them and/or share them

the connections here are meant to be more provocative than strictly literal. (e.g. i don’t literally think writing fanfic is a 1-1 descendant of japanning). these connections are instead meant to 1) make visible the baggage that fans of color often approach fandom with and 2) recontextualize and defamiliarize fannish practice for the purposes of honest critique

please don’t turn this post into being about other different kinds of discourse, or into something that only one “kind” of fan does. please take my words at face value and consider them in good faith. i would really appreciate that.

please feel free to ask me to clarify any statements or supply more in-depth sources :) 

[dorimena]

Yea request are open! I’ve been thinking about it lately from another fic but would Hawks be able to get off from his own feathers being used on him like a vibrator? Maybe not just on the outside of him but also the inside if possible or would the feathers break? Really I just want the bird man to get overstimulated but I didn’t know if you’re okay with writing for him so just ignore this if you don’t

Hey! Nice to see you slide into the confessional again! (ﾉ´ヮ`)ﾉ*: ･ﾟ

Hope you don't mind that this is going to be Hawks' debut into the covent for the thirsty people ready to confess their deepest desires on what to do with this man-

𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔠𝔱𝔢𝔯; Takami Keigo - Hawks

𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱; 855

𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰; gender neutral reader, sex toys (vibrator, dildo, fleshlight), but the mentioned toys are somehow made from his feathers, implied orgasm denial, masturbation, caught, mentioned choking, dom!reader, sub!character

𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔰; silly monologue, Keigo wondering how he didn’t know he could do this sooner, reader wondering why Keigo didn’t know

𝕴 𝖍𝖊𝖆𝖗 𝖘𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖉𝖘 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖒𝖆𝖐𝖊 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖒𝖞 𝖑𝖎𝖕𝖘

It was probably something he didn’t even know was possible until he made it become possible.

As far as Keigo knew, his feathers were either to be weapons, an aid, a shield, even a tracking device, kinda. But he never thought he could use them for his own selfish pleasure.

You’ve been neglecting him for weeks now, always running off and around because of work. It has him tempted to try convincing you, for the hundredth time, to quit your shitty job and work with him in his agency, but you always told him that this job is your dream job. So he’ll just respect that, but he won’t ever respect your boss or coworkers for using you like some slave to the industry.

Okay, maybe he’s just giving himself an unnecessary backstory to justify how the fuck he managed to get his feathers, the ones he grew up with for most part of his life, to fucking vibrate against his dick.

Vibrate. How do feathers even vibrate?

Well, how could feathers become lethal weapons is another question to answer another time.

But holy-

“Fuck! Fuck, that feels good.”

Keigo can’t help but groan, and if a little cute whimper followed, he ignored it. He doesn’t want to accept he’s already close to cumming, less beginning to already lose his cool.

Not like it mattered, considering you would always figure out new ways to make him lose his cool, his tranquility, his collectiveness, his ‘she-calls-me-daddy-too’ persona.

God, what would you fucking do to him if you found out his feathers are transportable, automatic, intensity level 7 vibrators?

He jerks his hips away from his 3 feathers, breathing heavily as he watches how they move, how they shake, how the tip of each feather was covered in his own precum. Ew, no wonder he keeps feeling something sticky cooling on his cheek, and here he thought he was beginning to cry-

Wait, nevermind, his hand can very much confirm he might’ve shed a tear.

Wiping away the droplets of water, whether it be other tears or simply his sweat, Keigo ponders over his next question: could he fuck himself with these newly discovered vibrators?

Great, now he feels weird.

Not because of his question but because of how… Well, his feathers still feel soft, even if having them in a certain abundance and covered with a condom. His makeshift vibrating dildo made by his dearest and loveable feathers keeps prodding at his already prepared hole (thanks to one of your buttplugs.)

Which reminds him: will you be coming home soon? Not so much because of the sheer embarrassment of having to clean your buttplug instead of one of his, but more so to maybe see your raw reaction about this scenario-

“SHIT- FUCK!”

Okay, maybe he should’ve also, like, paid attention to the fact his feathery dildo (ugh, come on, Keigo, name it something else) had been trying to enter him for the past few minutes. But instead of some slow, gentle, sensual insertion, he decided to fuck himself as hard as you usually thrust inside of him.

Just how much did he miss you?

“S-so much! Too much- Miss you~” He whispers to absolutely no one but his feathers and pillows under him, cheek planted on one of the plush, soft materials as he prepares himself for-

“Hnngh!”

That pornographic whimper once he activated the vibration mode.

And when you finally came home, instead of a clingy, pouty, loving boyfriend greeting you at the door and helping you with your stuff, you’re lead by the invisible string to your bedroom, eyes widening in amazement at the sheer impossible yet fucking sexy scene before you:

Keigo, in his trembling, toe curling, back arching and chest puffing position, thrusting into the makeshift fleshlight from his vibrating feathers-

Huh!?

You quickly cover your mouth, hoping that your choked gasp of disbelief drowned in his equally choked gasping and moaning.

Oh, he’s choking himself.

Let’s assess the man who the public admire as their #2 prohero and how he’s never, ever mentioned how his feathers could vibrate.

Again, you’ve walked into him trembling while he’s fucking a fleshlight and being fucked by a dildo made by his own feathers that, for some reason unknown, are imitating the sound and movement of the 7th setting on his wand vibrator.

You don’t really get much time to actually find the reasons and name facts to explain this erotic scene before Keigo’s grabbing one of the pillows and smothering his face with it, drowning out his screams and growls of being overwhelmed by the powerful orgasm his body catapaulted into, especially with how, prior to your arrival, he had been trying to convince himself that denying his orgasm for possibly the 10th time in barely under an hour was going to do more harm than good to him and his sanity.

[luna-writes-stuff]

Day 17: R.E.M, Leo Valdez

Song link

Fanfic, gender neutral! reader

Fluff

Word count: 2769

Tw: Use of Y/N, and I am so sorry. Some sort of soulmate AU where your soulmate feels as if you've met them before. Hesitant Leo. The entire group is now at the same camp, suck it. None other, really.

Summary: Upon arriving to camp, you meet a boy who feels awfully familiar to you. As if you've met him before. You become close friends and help him out at bunker 9, even when he doesn't need it. But what happens when he finally dares to speak his mind?

"Last night, boy, I met you. When I was asleep. You're such a dream to me."

From the moment he saw you, he had described you as something out of his dreams. Something too good to be real; Too beautiful to walk up to him and talk to him. As if you had been Aphrodite herself. He would never say this, of course, but his thoughts would always linger on that.

When you were first introduced, he had nearly believed he was sleeping, now caught up in a rare, but beautiful dream. Something so amazing that it could not have been reality.

But it was. You had been in front of him. And you had been real.

"And it was on a day like this, yeah. If you can believe, if you can believe. You're such a dream to me."

"What do we think of the new girl?" Percy had asked, a sly smile on his face as he looked directly at Leo. Sure, the question had been meant for the entire group, but he already knew who's answer he wanted to hear more.

"Well," Piper begun, catching onto Percy's intention. "we know what Leo thinks of her." She nudged Leo lightly, who seemed to snap out of his daze.

"She must be truly wonderful if she leaves Leo speechless." Jason joked. "I haven't seen her yet."

"You should have seen Leo." Piper laughed again. "We was all 'what?'." She continued, as her eyes widened at the last words, imitating the tad bit dramatic face Leo had made earlier.

"Yes. You're all really funny." Leo spoke, rolling his eyes.

"Awww." Percy teased. "Is the wittle Weo in wove?"

"Well, I think it's great, Leo." Hazel tried to defend. "She's very nice. We talked for a little while today. I'm sure she's a fun person to be around."

Percy snickered at Leo's face, before Annabeth gave him a wack on the back of his head, silently telling him to shut up.

"Maybe you should talk to her." Frank offered. "She already knows me and Hazel. We could introduce you."

"Before you speak, don't move, 'cause I don't wanna wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up. Boy, you're such a dream If you can believe. Boy, you're such a dream to me."

And so they did. You had only arrived at camp a few days ago, so you were still gettin familiar with your surroundings, but so far, everything had been going relatively easy.

That was, until managed to break one of the daggers on the training floor. In hindsight, it hadn't even been your felt; the handle had already been somewhat unstable, but there was nothing else for you to use, so you had to make do. And then it broke off when you lodged it into your target. Job well done.

"Hey, Y/N!" You heard the familiar voice of Hazel, one of the people you had met earlier today. You turned around quickly at the side, hoping that they would not see the broken knife. You offered them a slight wave, trying your best to force a smile onto your face.

You noticed Hazel and Frank approaching, followed by someone you had only seen for a brief moment, but had yet to be introduced to.

"We have been looking for you." She gushed as she came to a halt next to you.

"This is Leo." She continued, pointing towards the boy that had followed them.

""Excuse me, um, I love you". I know that's not the way to start a conversation, trouble. I watch them other girls when they come and bug you."

So that was his name. Indeed, his face had been slightly familiar to you. You remembered seeing him on your first day at camp as he was talking to a group of people, but you got sidetracked by Will. You had merely shared a smile with him, but that had been it.

"Hey, Leo." You began, extending your hand for him to shake. Leo was quick to accept it, shaking your hand lightly, before returning his own hand.

"It feels as if we've met before." You remarked, a truly unknown feeling surging through you. As if it had been some sort of deju vu. "But we haven't. Have we?"

"No." Leo mumbled quietly, letting out a cough, as if clearing his throat.

"No, we haven't."

"But I felt like I knew you, so I just wanted to hug you."

You let out an understanding hum, taking in the boy's appearance.

"Leo is a child of Hepheastus." Hazel explained. "He has been around here for a while. He might be able to show the entirety of camp, instead of only the halls and fields."

"That would be nice." You agreed quietly, not yet daring to tell them that you had already been shown around. It had just been an act of kindness. You couldn't brush it off. Not in your first week.

"Plus you don't know your way around. You can stop your playing now. All your worries, lay 'em down, shh, don't say it loud."

"So, it finally broke?" Frank spoke lightly as he pointed towards the dagger that had now been split in half. And you could just sink into the floor in shame.

Thankfully, Hazel noticed, chuckling at her boyfriend's words.

"I'm sorry." You apologized, but Hazel shook it off.

"It was bound to break any time soon. Don't worry about it. Plus," She spoke, her voice a bit more teasing than it had been before. "I'm sure Leo could fix it. Those things are kind of his specialty."

You raised your eyebrows at the said boy, who was toying with the ends of his sleeves.

"Aren't they, Leo?" The girl directed towards him.

Leo let out a hum in response, nodding his head. He walked up to the broken piece of copper and tin, inspecting it only a little, before turning towards the three of you.

"The handle just needs a bit of solder, but that is it. No damage that can't be fixed." He announced as he picked up the pieces.

"Do you need help?" You offered, as it had been you that broke the thing. Regardless of how unstable it had been.

"Is this real, baby? You're like: "I love you—who starts a conversation like that?" Nobody, but I do."

Usually, Leo would have said no. He was fine working on his own; he could decide his own pace and way of working, but there was something about the way you asked him for assistance that left him incapable of saying anything other than yes.

So you had said your goodbyes to Hazel and Frank, who were back on their way to their group. You simply followed Leo, having no idea where he was taking you, but somehow; you trusted him.

You would have never gone with people you did not know, even less with those that lead you into the forest, yet there was something about Leo that simply seemed to radiate comfort. As if you had known him for years, and it was insane to you. Because there had still been this overpowering feeling of some sort of deja vu, or a dream.

But he had been in front of you. He was real.

"But you are not a picture, I can't cut you up and hide you. I'll get you out my mind, or try to."

To him, you were still this surrealistic creature in front of him. Something he could not say no to. No matter how much he might try.

You seemed to hold this natural aura of calmness and serenity, and it did wonders to his own mood: He immediately seemed to cheer up. Sure, he had still been nervous, but just the way you looked at him, told him everything would be fine.

As if you would just take his worries away simply by holding his gaze.

"But I just want to stand and yell. I will never dare to tell. Think I heard some wedding bells, shh, keep it to yourself Is this real?"

As you arrived at bunker 9, Leo immediately set to work, giving you a short tour, which mainly consisted out of showing you where the food is and where he will sit.

While Leo was working, his mind would usually wander off to brand new project ideas or anything he could add to Festus, but right now, his head had just been an empty cave with one echoeing thought; you. And the poor boy hated it.

He never met you before, you had barely even spoken and he knew nothing about you besides your name, yet you seemed so familiar to him. So appealing and simply intoxicating.

"Before you speak, don't move, 'cause I don't wanna wake up wake up, wake up, wake up. 'Cause you're such a dream. If you can believe. You're such a dream to me."

But as much as he hated his inexplicable desire to be with you, he simultaneously loved it. He felt so care free and joyous while being so confused. His cheeks would heat up and his stomach seemed to make swirls, yet he loved it.

"Do you need me to get you anything?" You wondered, ripping him out of his thought. Leo shook his head as he mentally cleared himself.

"Just some of the tin there." He instructed, pointing towards the small pile of metal in the corner of his desk. You nodded in response, walking over to the said object and handing it to the boy, who yet again seemed lost in his own world.

You decided to let him be, residing on the chair behind him as you patiently waited for him to finish.

"I could buy you anything, but I cannot buy you. Before your boy gets smart, I would never try to."

That was a couple months ago. You and Leo grew very close to one another over the time. He had even offered for you to stay with him in bunker 9 whenever he had been busy with a project. Not because he needed your help, but because your presence seemed to make him focus more than he usually did. And it did wonders for his self esteem.

"Hey, Leo?" You asked, upon entering the room you had grown so accustomed to. A hum was heard from his desk as Leo took a quick look over his shoulder.

"I was wondering if you could perhaps make something like a light for a book?" You asked, your voice filled with hesitance.

"Like a night light?" He asked, now turning around in his seat.

"Not exactly. Some form of light you can hold under your book to only light up the pages and not the entire room. As to not wake anyone up, you know?"

Leo seemed to think about it for a moment, already sketching ideas in my head. "Of course I can." He finally concluded, grabbing a piece of paper before writing something down.

"You know I'm thinking to myself, "What happened? Why you?", but when I see you in my dreams, psh, I know."

"Oh, it doesn't have now. I know you're busy." You tried to soothe, walking up to the boy who was already scribbling away.

"No, it's alright." He shot back. "I have been looking for an excuse to stop working on this stupid wheel for a while now, so you're practically saving me."

You laughed at his words, before joining him at his desk, looming over his shoulders to take a look at what he had been working on.

"Why don't you just remove this screw," You tried, pointing towards the piece stuck in the wheel. "and solder it instead. It will hold longer, plus, that screw can be of better use right here." You went on, pointing towards an empty space.

Leo's hands stopped working at your words, following the line you had made in your mind. "That actually makes a lot of sense." He mumbled, picking up the screw as the wheel slowly fell apart.

"I have taught you well, young padawan." He spoke with a teasing smile, following your instructions.

"You know how to treat it, you know how to eat it. You know how to beat it. The Good Housekeeping Seal."

"You know," Leo began as you walked over to your usual spot. "I never really let people in when I'm working. They distract me."

"You let me in the first day we met." You pointed out, raising your eyes at him, though Leo had been back to work.

"I know. That's what is so weird. It just felt right to let you come, you know? Even though I knew nothing about you besides your name." Leo admitted, still not looking at you.

"Maybe it was my irresistable charm." You joked, shrugging as you returned to your back.

"Would not count on it." Leo sang, as he threw the screw on the floor. "I think it was because you felt familiar."

Your eyes lit up at his words, speaking a sentence you thought you had been the only one to experience. "I know." You gaped.

"I felt like I knew you from somewhere. I just couldn't place it. Still can't." You exclaimed.

"Perhaps we were good friends in a previous life." He teased, now turning back to you, making a weird face as he lift his hands, as if he had been telling a ghost story.

"Shove it." You shot at him, pocking your tongue out.

"I don't just wanna touch you: I'm tryna turn two single people into a couple. What's your next month like? Tell me what you're up to. We can leave right now, boy, you don't need a duffel."

"Well, we don't really have to worry about it anymore, do we?" Leo asked as he grabbed some of the tin. "We're basically beside each other the entire day."

"Yes, but still; it was weird." You laughed, propping your head on a pillow as you stared at him whilst he worked.

Leo tried to shake the nostalgic feeling again. After all those weeks, he still held that feeling when thinking about you. Sure, he laughed at it and tried to make a joke out of it, but still; it bothered him that he did not know what caused it.

And the longer he spend time around you, the more he realized that he had not even known you before, at all. Everything just felt so different. So unrealistic. As if it was a dream.

He knew it wasn't, of course. He had done the standard 'check if you're actually awake' tests, but his brain always seemed to tell him something different.

Because he could actually swear that the lights around him became lighter the minute you stepped into the room. And it was no cheesy thought. He was genuinely convinced that that was the case.

"What about La Perla? Let Vickie keep her secret Boy, it ain't no secret if I know you're gonna peep it."

"How about that new cafe around the corner, 10 o'clock tomorrow." Leo suddenly spoke up, even shocking himself.

"I heard Piper say that they had the best coffee and cake there. I've been dying to try it out." He began to cover up. It had not been a total lie, sure. But if he would tell you it was only because he was scared to ask you out on an actual date, it would be weird. So he lied. Only a little.

You gave him a questioning look. "That came out of nowhere."

Leo shrugged, turning around to take a quick look at you. "Suddenly shot into my head. I think you'd like it too. They also have great tea, if you're not a coffee fan."

"It almost sounds as if you've been there already." You joked, sending him a wink. Leo froze under the gesture, but tried to keep his calm, desperately keeping his nose from not lighting up.

"Piper likes to talk." He defended.

"She sure does."

"Before you speak, don't move, 'cause I don't wanna wake up, wake up, wake up, wa-wake up. 'Cause you're such a dream. If you can believe."

"Well, Sir Valdez, it's a date." You agreed, sending him fingerguns, but you swiftly returned them. "If that was what you were implying." You rambled. "If not, then it can be a fun rendezvous."

"It can be a date." Leo mumbled. "But I'm not dressing fancy."

You let out a nervous laugh. "Neither will I. It's a cafe."

And then a silence fell over the two of you. Leo had yet to turn back to his work, but something lingered in the back of his brain. Something he could not really place.

"So, ten o'clock?" He checked, shaking off the thought.

"Sure. Sounds like a good time." You agreed, nodding your head at him. "We can meet up in the strawberry fields 30 minutes before."

Leo hummed at your answer, trying to hold back his huge smile, though a grin did manage to show on his face.

"That sounds perfect."

"You're such a dream to me. To me, to me, yeah."

[liketheinferno2]

NieR:Automata asks the question multiple times of whether androids or machine lifeforms are more human or imitating humanity better than the other and this is portrayed with... so much delicate complexity I keep thinking about it.

On one side you have androids who are human in appearance, human in intelligence, able to speak clearly enough and express emotions as mundane and extraordinary as the audience needs to identify them as people..... and then on the other hand there's machines, who even though they are on the large part very fucking dumb and prone to iterating the same behaviors, they have communities, social roles, FAMILIES even though they have no biology that sorts them into familial units in the first place.

Neither of them can age, neither are born through sexual reproduction, and when connected to their respective networks neither can really DIE, and this throws off the whole human thing of being born into families and growing from a child into an adult and potentially becoming the parent to a new child later, of having siblings you come into the world connected to, and of having family roles that are (usually) both innate and distinct -- a sibling might be older than you but that's different to a parent being older that you, right?

So machines have parents and siblings and uncles and aunts and family dynamics, but if they're not biological, then all child machines are adopted, that's simple enough. But they don't age. A child machine does not necessarily grow into an adult. They can stay children, even infants, forever, and their minds don't progress beyond that state even though there are other machines of greater maturity and intelligence and just mental age than the children, so being an adult is clearly possible, but it does not correlate with growing or getting to adulthood through linear change. How does that work? Are they born adults? Are they born parents?

I feel like this is pretty cleanly answered with Adam and Eve who are really like... communicative characters being machines that look and talk like the android characters. Android bodies and machine psyches or something... Anyway, you see them both be born within minutes of each other. Featureless, sexless, ageless, undifferentiated, basically in the world for nearly the exact same amount of time to gain experiences and maturity.

The next time you see them, Adam is the elder, he's more mature, smarter; a caretaker even if he's doing kind of a shit job at it, while Eve is concerningly dependent and childish, doing whatever he's told and just talking about baby things like he wants to play, he hates wearing clothes and eating dinner. Adam implies they've taken on physical sex at some point since they were last seen naked as well.

And they're not just acting like brothers either, there's something extremely off about these guys. It might be hard to identify at first because it's not really overtly stated, but Adam did technically give birth to Eve and is in that sense also his mother. He feeds him and clothes him and teaches him and even gave him a name, and their dynamic is all sorts of weird because they're multitasking mother and brother in the same relationship.

It stands to reason, then, that machines have a thing about taking on human roles, gender roles and familial roles and societal roles like knights and kings, and their minds and bodies shape around that role so that they can best fulfill it, not the other way around. The brothers were not born with genitals or any kind of gender presentation but they developed those as they took on that role of brothers, male siblings. Adam leans very androgynous and I think it's because he's got a female role as well. Eve stays immature because he's the little one, he's always going to be the little one as long as that's his role, even though they're the same size and the same age chronologically.

I'm not exactly sure where I'm going with this I just think it's kind of a brilliant take how this game considers one of the core facets of humanity to be how we find purpose in relation to each other and form identities in the contexts of social groups.

When Eve loses his brothermom, he loses the thing that was connecting him to his social roles and goes, shall we say, off the shits. And the same thing happens to 9S later because the YoRHa combat roles are the same kind of thing, if more externally assigned-at-birth -- his entire purpose was to support someone else.

These two are secondary, they're the rib, the support, they were made to be dependent and when severed from their special person it results in a catastrophic collapse of identity. They get decontextualised and struggle to find that footing again without devolving into destruction or self-destruction, which is not unlike what grief can do to a person anyway.

Another thing is that throughout the game you see machines of all levels of intelligence hurt themselves and kill themselves, and for a long chunk of the game I had assumed this was because they were still robots in the end and had some kind of self-destruct programming that was acting up. The final route flips this on its head and shows self-harm and fear to be horrifically human things, something expressed even in the characters that act the most realistically like people... because they act the most realistically like people.

NieR:Automata shows you the most painful emotions of grief and loss of identity and insists that these are very basic and natural and HUMAN responses to traumatic events, even if they make you feel like the entire world is collapsing -- it's that capacity for love and hurt that we have in common with all other people. Fucking phenomenal game, the more I think about this the more it makes me feel serene and connected to the world.