#also its on itch! go buy it!

[haveyoureadthistransbook]

Mommy, Deadly by Ladz

goodreads

An office horror exploring the trope of "pregnant and in peril," which annoys me very much as femme-bodied agender person. The trope appears as such: It’s the end of the world and you’re pregnant. The story doesn’t seem to care as much though. The pregnancy is only relevant as the danger around the characters dictates or until the baby has to come. Or if there’s a reason all the hospitals need to be shut down (like during a zombie outbreak). It drives up the tension. It makes the villain extra villainous if they attack the pregnant person. It’s got little to do with the parent and their child. In fact, it might just serve to reinforce the stereotypes of feminine fragility and women needing unwarranted protection.

Mod opinion: This is a short story exploring pregnancy and the horrifying way people treat pregant people as objects. It's interesting and really fun.

[killjoy-prince]

Manga haul from yesterday

[oshaviolater]

no pls it's literally so embarrassing to explain like no im not christian no no im just a gen z who accidentally got influenced by instagram fashion trend im so sorryyy

[jiminrings]

fail-safe

pairing: yoongi x reader

wordcount: 8k

glimpse: growing up, your brother's best friend always berated you for not having a passion in life outside of loving him from afar. when yoongi leaves everything he's ever known for everything he's ever wanted, trying to move on from him becomes your biggest aspiration.

alternatively, yoongi left when you needed him the most, and comes back home at a time when you love him the least.

[ part one, intermission, part two, intermission 02, finale ]

[ a Lot of angst, eventual fluff, brother's best friend AND single dad au, So Much Yearning, unrequited love (initial), jealousy, self-deprecation, a lot of talk abt passion in an empty n hurtful way that most impassioned youngest children feel (it's a specific feeling idk!!!), eventual redemption in the next parts ]

notes: finally got to writing a new series!!! i'm beyond excited for this + this whole new concept and flow i haven't touched on before <3 i hope u love fail-safe as much as i do :-)

as always, lmk what you think <3 send in feedback n love to my askbox anytime!! | series masterlist

Yoongi buys atleast one scratch ticket a week.

The accessibility of buying one is top-notch considering that all he has to do is cross the street, shoot one look to the cashier, and he can either already go hunch in the corner of the road or in the comfort of his room. The moment his coin takes its first dig and he realizes that he’s won yet again, he’s satisfied enough not to buy another ticket.

He doesn’t want to risk losing the win he’s just gained, the odds of him throwing out money besting his chances in adding to his earnings. He thinks everyone’s a little greedy one way or another, but it’s the righteous part of him that thinks he’s different.

You do think that he is for all the right reasons, your vision only tunneling for him alone. He’s this fixed older figure in your life and you can’t figure out how to shrug him off — he’s this generous leech that sucks all of the rationality from your mind but returns it to you twofold, whether in the form of him saying something unintentionally endearing that it makes your chest hurt, or through him having to lightly smack the back of your head.

Yoongi’s your older brother’s best friend and there’s a novelty tag that comes with him, one that can’t be topped by any material possession to your name. He’s there for you, not in the exact way you want him to be, but nonetheless there. He’s special and unattainable at the same time, the finiteness of his love barely extending to you.

He’s there when you want him to burn the latest songs onto a CD you’ve spent all your allowance in, and he’s there when you get annoyed that he sneaked some of his own recommendations in there. You’re there when you later admit that his suggestions aren’t half-bad, and you also happen to be there when he grins at the praise.

He’s there when Namjoon won’t cough up the last slice of his cutlet, not because he’ll actually give you his, but because he’ll help your brother guard his plate. You’d only have to mope for a solid of three seconds before the two of them give up both of their last slices, and you’re there when Yoongi insists for you to try the sauce in the spirit of going out of your routine.

You don’t need Yoongi every single time but in the event that you do, he hangs back. He contemplates and hesitates and doesn’t give in to every single whim that you have, but he’ll be there. He lingers like the last holiday ornament you don’t want to remove until it’s February, his presence being oddly similar to your favorite festivities.

Yoongi’s the equivalent of a holiday you look forward to with each passing month and day; he comes around to and for you in instances, but never even in your most sincere wishes.

“I buy one scratch ticket a week — three if I’m really feeling lucky. When my palms itch, that’s when I know that I really need to buy them.”

He’s calm and collected even when you’re scrunching your nose up at him in combined worry and disbelief, humming mindlessly as you collect your thoughts. He randomly told you about his lottery routine and you’re still trying to wrap your head around how he blows his money off just easily. Yoongi has the mind to put scrap cardboard under you because sitting on the hot concrete with your uniform on can’t possible be a good idea, but you try to play off your fluster into stubbornness.

He’s just playing with his two ever-present coins (lucky charms as he calls them)— one that’s shiny and minted in the present year, the other being the oldest coin he’s ever had that happens to be older than he is — while you mutter about.

“I don’t know, Yoongs. That might be a gambling problem,” you squint, your side comment being heard clearly as day. “Might be the symptoms for hand, foot, and mouth disease too.”

“What— I do not have a gambling problem! My skin’s perfectly fine too, thanks,” he defends, the light shove he gives you doing nothing to tone down your teasing.

“That’s what people with gambling problems say.”

“Give me that-…” he mutters, trying to wrestle you for the sundae he bought you using the money he won from his scratch ticket just awhile ago. You don’t give in easily, even if your laughs that come straight from your chest suggest otherwise. “You don’t get it. It’s just this nice, fun little thing I can look forward to every week. I always buy the cheapest version anyway so when I lose, it’s not a big deal.”

You relent (like you always do when it comes to Yoongi) in understanding, waving him off after regaining your breath. “Nah. I get it. We all have to do things so we wouldn’t lose our shit,” you trail, racking your head to find the right words.“Yours is buying scratch tickets, and mine is-…”

“Yours is what?” Yoongi raises an eyebrow, lips quirked in eagerness to know where you’re going with this. He can’t pinpoint a single thing he can attach to you and neither can you, your actual interests merely reflecting those of the people whom you love.

You love cross-stitching because your mom loves doing it, the tolerance you have for accidentally being pricked by the needle growing over time.

You enjoy playing badminton because Namjoon’s obsessed with the sport, no matter how ratty your rackets and shuttlecocks have become, and no matter how much he pushes you to ring the doorbell to your neighbor’s when he’s sent it flying to their backyard.

You’re probably an imposter yet you don’t feel like it. You don’t feel bad that your life most probably and will only revolve around your mom and Namjoon (maybe even Yoongi); you don’t feel dissatisfied that your life’s mundane. 

You go where your love goes.

“Mine is watching you buy scratch tickets,” you shrug easily as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, making him laugh heartily. You’ve probably done something right because he hauls you up to your feet immediately.

“Get up. I’m buying you your first ticket,” he nudges you, grabbing you by the arm in excitement.

“But I’m not even legal!” you half-heartedly argue, internally excited that you’re finally getting to try your hand at the lottery because you’ve spent a few hundred minutes of your life tuned to the channel to pass the time, awaiting the results for something you haven’t even betted for.

“Right. Like I haven’t seen you trying to squeeze out a drop of beer from our empty cans whenever Namjoon and I drink.”

“Rude,” you roll your eyes playfully, gathering your things from the ground.

“It’s okay. I’ll give you your first sip of beer too if you want,” Yoongi offers sincerely; easily as if you’ve just asked him about the weather.

He’s here to buy you your first scratch ticket, and he’s still here to offer giving you your first sip of liquor in the future.

Your family friend for a cashier vehemently ignores the fact that you’re still underage to participate in the lottery, and instead only chuckles to herself in amusement. She’s an aunt that knows when to step in and not to, and she knows you won’t be harmed by a mere bet. In fact, she knows you won’t be harmed by anything with Yoongi in tow.

“I already used up all my change,” your frown in realization, holding the ticket in your hands in despair despite having scoured your wallet repeatedly.

“Rub it against the pavement. That’s what I do,” Yoongi lies fluidly, a scoff being caught in his throat when you actually attempt to do it.  “I was only kidding, Y/N. Jeez,” he groans, pulling out his wallet. “Ugh. Here. You can have one of my lucky coins.”

It’s the old one, tarnished beyond relief that you can barely recognize what it’s actual value is supposed to be.

“Ew. I’m giving it back. It looks prehistoric,” you narrow your eyes, knowing that you don’t even have to put your fingers nears your nose to know that it’s already left a faint stench on them.

Yoongi rolls his eyes, a habit he can’t tell he’s formed himself or got from you. “If you use your brain for one second, you’d realize that it’s actually worth more because it’s older. Collectors would go crazy for that in the future.”

“That sounds like a hoarding problem.”

He’s just had about enough of your whining so he attempts to trade in the old coin for his lucky new one, but you stop him at the last minute with a meek smile.

“Kidding. Thank you. I’ll keep it safe, Yoongi. I promise,” you rush out before he changes his mind, scratching your ticket in silence.

He waits for you because you’re scratching so politely and neatly, a stark opposite to his experienced skill of scratching the paint off in ten strokes or less.

Your face is too close to the ticket that Yoongi can’t tell what’s happening, making him part your hair like a curtain to peek.

“Did you win?”

“Nope.”

“Let me throw that out for you.”

“No!” you squeak, keeping the ticket close to your chest. It’s a bummer that your first time is a loss, but it didn’t mean that you wanted to forget the sentiment behind it. “I-I mean no, I’ll keep it. It’s memorable now that I think about it.”

“Alright,” he shrugs carelessly, a smile breaking out in retaliation. “Hoarder.”

“Gambler,” you spit, tucking the ticket into your pencil case. “Next week again?”

Yoongi agrees, wrapping his head around the fact that he doesn’t have to be alone in his little routine every Friday.

“Sure.”

( ♡ )

You don’t mind getting hand-me-downs.

As a matter of fact, you love receiving them. The wear and tear of the things that came before you is only proof that it’s been loved enough to be passed on to you.

You adore your mother’s dainty vintage watch that she wore throughout college, the hardware and sentiment behind it being pretty enough that you don’t mind constantly getting the battery replaced. You like Namjoon’s shirts that he’s outgrown, even through the numerous phases he’s had wherein only denim and tie-dye filled his closet.

You don’t mind the history behind the numerous things you have in your home, unbothered that you’re probably the only house in the block with the oldest possible rice cooker. The chips in the staircase aren’t covered up with marker ink and neither are the loose stitches in the couch quilt snipped off. It’s home to your mother and Namjoon — if it’s good enough for them, then it’s already the best for you.

Even on top of everything, you don’t mind your family almost always getting you shirts and shoes that have an allowance in them. Your mom would go to Seoul and pick out the exact pair of sneakers you wanted that are atleast three sizes bigger than your actual feet, and you’d barely bat an eye. 

You don’t mind the coziness of things that are brought to you, because even if they weren’t offered, you’d seek them yourself. 

So when Yoongi mentioned that he’s decluttering his room and needed someone (read: you) to vacuum it up for him, you jump at the chance. You take a grocery bag with you, wear the nearest pair of slippers within your vicinity, and book it to his house as soon as he finished talking.

“Go crazy, kid. Almost everything in that pile is garbage so you can take anything.”

“I feel like I should be more offended than how I feel right now,” you hum, furrowing your eyebrows at the pile in front of you. It’s a mound of Yoongi, or atleast everything he’s ever wanted up until he decided to do a general cleaning of his bedroom.

Yoongi chuckles, going through his pile of clean laundry for him to fold on the side while you scavenge for his things. “It’s either I have you take them or I get ripped off at the thrift store, then I see somebody’s uncle wearing my shirt as an added insult.”

You huff, rummaging through his heap of belongings while conveniently trying to ignore that you may look like somebody’s uncle the moment you wear his clothes. Everything is him; every distressed cap, every unfinished embroidered shirt, and every item of old significance with his initials branded on it.

The thick gray hoodie you’ve been eyeing (along with its owner) for the better part of the last few years surfaces into your field of vision, your gasp audible enough to make him jolt because he thought you’d gotten hurt.

“No way, this too? But this is your favorite,” you half-complain and half-rejoice, turning the hoodie inside-out eagerly in the fear that there’s a catch to it belonging in the pile.

“Eh. I know it looked good on me but I don’t think it’s my favorite. Besides, I’ve bulked up! Wanna feel?” Yoongi grins, his segue eerily similar to your brother’s at every given chance. A neighbor from down the block recently opened a small-time gym, and the both of them have not been able to shut their mouths about it since. From their gossiping alone, Yoongi and Namjoon have generated enough advertising already.

“You and Namjoon really have to stop asking random people to feel your biceps.”

There’s random knick-knacks throughout the clump in the middle of his bed, some being too good and actually useful that you snag them. Yoongi lets you do what you want anyways (most of the time), not having to turn his head to berate you on what you’re only allowed to grab from his stuff.

You’re not greedy — you already have his hoodie and that should be enough on its own. But there’s that handkerchief with his initials embroidered on it, then that Rubik’s cube he swore his relative got for him from New York, and even the little butterfly knife he got from a souvenir shop when his family when to the beach.

There were those and there is this, looking up at you in all of its glory.

“Yoongi.” 

“What now?” he sighs at your dramatic gasp, looking up from his folded laundry to see what you were going on about. It takes a second for him to fully realize why exactly were you so pumped.

“Are you serious? Your helmet?” you squeal, already hugging the shiny red mass close to you. “Does this mean you’re passing your motorcycle to me?!”

“Are you crazy? Fuck no,” Yoongi rolls his eyes, snatching his helmet back from you. He doesn’t miss the bratty frown that fills up your entire face; he’s not exactly the biggest fan whenever you were upset or angry; maybe even both. “Obviously I forgot I even put my helmet there when I made that pile.”

You whine, stomping your feet in exasperation. You would dramatically plop down on his bed if only it wasn’t full of his shit. “Come on! You told me you were teaching me as soon as you finish teaching Joon.”

“Teaching you how to ride my scooter is not the same as giving you it. Why would I just hand you what I bought with my hard-earned money?” Yoongi scrunches his nose, tone sharper than what he intended.

“But you still haven’t taught me,” you murmur to placate yourself and dissuade yourself from the delusion that Yoongi would even exert such an effort for you because of course — why would he do that for you?

You have an inkling that you’re being irrational for all the wrong reasons, perhaps even projecting your need to be looked after… by him.

Yoongi notices your mood that turned sour quickly, the silence between you becoming loaded. He didn’t mean to be that blunt. “I don’t think you’re even old enough to have your driving permit,” he adds in consolation, voice considerably softer.

You snicker lowly, still looking at your feet with your arms crossed. “But I’m old enough to backpack whenever you need me to carry shit that can’t fit in your carrier.”

He immediately groans at your comeback, his furrowed eyebrows mirroring yours. “You’re so stubborn.”

“You’re a hypocrite,” you retort, knowing for a fact he’s known how to drive even before he was eligible for permits and licenses and whatnot. 

Yoongi takes one, two seconds to himself to regain his composure, clearing his head in the process. You’re still not looking at him and you’re pouting and you don’t even notice the latter, making him crack a small smile.

“I will teach you next week.”

“Oh my-…”

He cuts you off, raising his hand in emphasis. “Provided that you listen to everything I say and wear full gear at all times. You clearly don’t have a job yet-…”

“Ouch.”

“And I don’t have the extra money to buy full gear for myself, so what you’ll do is bundle up with your padded coat and the thickest jeans you have,” Yoongi enunciates every word, eyes keenly on you. They’re too wide and alert, you actually feel like listening to him.

“You go on rides wearing your pajamas.”

“Just say ‘thank you, Yoongi’.” 

“You haven’t done anything yet,” you trail off, head tilting in confusion. 

You’ve had a million conversations like this with Yoongi before but of different fonts; worn, familiar, and warm.

“Thank you, Yoongi,” he mouths, nodding at you to do the same. He won’t stop until you utter them back to him, and you know you won’t go home either without giving him your gratitude as you always do.

“Thank you, Yoongi,” you relent, the grin that breaks through your lips being infectious enough that he laughs lowly to himself.

He exhales all the worries he has and could possibly ever have seeing you ride the motorcycle (or for you yearning to do everything that he does), grasping at whatever sanity he has left from looking after you.

“You can have the helmet.”

( ♡ )

Yoongi knows the ins and outs of your home.

He’s been at your house too much to the point that your mom already gave him a spare key and nobody batted an eye about it. He has his own designated slippers at the entryway too, something you would only use in a hurry if you needed to sign off on a package.

Yoongi, for some reason unfathomable (not really; you can tell exactly why because your mom is an extremely warm and inviting person), also has the power of dibs on the food in your fridge. He’d put strips of masking tape with his name on food that’s neither brought in nor made for him in the first place. 

It should be off-putting — the way that for too many yet too little reason, Yoongi has become a prominent figure in your life even if you didn’t ask him to. You should be peeved that you have to set up four plates more often that you set up only three; you should be annoyed at some point that when you wake up at random times through the night, you’re not totally alone to begin with.

You shouldbe angry at Yoongi to a degree because he’s in your life and you don’t get to have a say on how he stays in it. The only problem is that you’re not, and probably never will.

“Can’t sleep?” you mutter as you look up from your strikingly clear paper, seeing Yoongi strut across the floor with a casualness that only real occupants of the house should supposedly possess. He has his brows furrowed at you as if he didn’t expect to see you in your living room, scratching his head in wonder.

“Why are you up?”

“Stressed,” you sigh, giving up altogether in attempting to make yourself look busy. Yoongi drives by your fridge to get himself a can of beer, finally seating himself beside you on the floor. 

“Stressed about what? I’m sure it’s not about studying,” he snorts, unsurprised at your paper and the clear lack of motivation behind it. You only roll your eyes at him and he has half a mind to not remind you to not do it so much, the frown in your face reminding him that you really were frustrated.

It is you to throw the occasional tantrum, but he remembers that it was only when you were young; when Namjoon would whisper gibberish to his ear and purposely not whisper to yours just so he could tease you, or when nobody would believe that you taught yourself how to ride a bike with no training wheels. You didn’t know how to do the latter at all, but what had made you throw a tantrum was that nobody believed you.

You notice Yoongi’s digs, of course. You notice each one of his more than unsubtle nods to your intelligence and whatnot, the shots at your intellect not flying over your head like he expected them to.  You admit that you’ve never been that scholastic; you weren’t born a genius and you don’t try exactly hard either.

Yoongi’s only joking but you can’t help but to think that he’s pertaining to something deeper, his constant digs at your lack of a passion making you sluggish.

“We have to write this essay,” you answer simply, your tone straightforward and unwilling for banter but Yoongi bites anyway.

“But essays are the easiest,” he trails, looking at you the whole time as he takes a sip of his beer.

You exhale heavily because no matter what, he just can’t seem to get it. Yoongi knows where you’re coming from but he doesn’t know where you’re headed. As a matter of fact, you don’t know where you’re headed either. “We have to write an essay about where we see ourselves ten years from now.”

“But that’s still easy.”

“If it’s so easy, then go write it for me,” you snicker, leaning back with a huff. He constantly undermines you and although you own up to your striking mundaneness from time to time, it didn’t mean that you liked being looked down on. Yoongi’s too used to you being yourself, he gets taken aback when you grow sick of your own.

He gathers all his willpower, far from being sleepy unlike you who would’ve been lulled to sleep if only you weren’t dead-set on arguing with him. “You know what? I actually will,” he claps, handing you his beer. “Go hold this for me.”

Yoongi grips your pen for dear life like you hold his beer, his hand warm as he works from sheer determination alone (he’s not competing with anyone except for whatever expectation you have for him and your paper), while yours was cold just holding his drink.

You’ve been so quiet that he actually gets curious, turning his head to check to see if you’ve dozed off when actually, it’s just you eyeing the can.

“No one’s watching,” Yoongi breaks you out of your thoughts, carelessly shrugging. He cares and he’s far too concerned for you, but he figures that nothing would hurt you so long as he can grasp you. “It’s okay. You can have your first sip.”

You blink owlishly at him and when he jokes about taking it back, you take your first swig of beer in a panic. Yoongi only shakes his head in amusement, pausing his writing just to see the look on your face.

“One more?” he asks right after he sees you wince, the unbearable sweetness yet bitter, stinging aftertaste of the beer making you shudder. 

You have the urge to wash off the taste with ice cold water (you’ll even drink from the tap because you’re so desperate), but you resist it just so you wouldn’t look like a weakling in front of him. You wave him off with a bitterness, upset that beer doesn’t taste like what you’ve always imagined it to be. “Just write my essay for me,” you mull over the taste in your tongue, in deep thought while you stare at Yoongi’s back ahead of you. “Do all beers taste that way?”

“Eh. Most of them do. You develop a taste for it later on,” he answers, taking the can back from you before drinking it himself. He looks too dedicated in writing your essay, only goading the curiosity in you to peek over his shoulder.

He knows you, both in heart and memory, because he shields your own paper from you when he sees your shadow hovering above him.

“Yoongi?”

“Hm.”

“I told you why I’m up. Why are you up?”

He’s silent entirely, the only indication that he heard your question being his hand pausing abruptly. Yoongi doesn’t answer, and you don’t ask again. “Don’t worry about it.”

You take his answer to heart, dozing off on the couch before you know it. You don’t remember a blanket being placed on you, nor can you remember preparing your backpack for school the next day.

Your paper’s neatly tucked into your portfolio bearing handwriting that’s clearly not yours, but with a sentiment that’s similar nonetheless. You read through everything quickly before even stepping towards your teacher, the tips of your fingers just as cold as Yoongi’s beer last night.

You’ve committed the paper into your memory, even until the last part with an excerpt you can’t forget despite having passed the paper already. You don’t know what to feel because it’s Yoongi who’s speaking for you, detailing that ten years from now, you will still be your mother’s daughter and your brother’s sister.

He wrote your essay either for you or in behalf of you, and you can’t tell which one is better.

Yoongi, who knows the ins and outs of your home and the peaks and troughs of your heart, writes in clear handwriting — Ten years from now, I will still be Yoongi’s rock.

( ♡ )

Surprisingly, Yoongi hasn’t been around that much lately.

Even Namjoon (who you consider as his Siamese twin) is clueless to why his friend hasn’t been hanging out with him lately to do either everything or nothing, confused because they’re enrolled to the same classes all the way to the same part-time jobs, yet Yoongi’s been mostly unavailable.

When Yoongi is, however, he doesn’t speak at all about his previous absences. He comes as if he’s never disappeared a few times before that, his evasion to talk about his presence being apparent even if you’ve asked him directly.

You’re getting used to his new routine of hanging out with you only when the both of you are free, no longer moving mountains for both of your schedules to line up. He’s more present this month than he was at the last, the criteria for it being how many times you bump into him in your own home.

Despite all odds and evens though, Yoongi can’t get used to your silence. He knows you hold grudges longer than your brother, and the last time that he checked, he knows you’ve already let go of your annoyance for him suddenly being unavailable without any explanation. 

It’s late, only the two of you are awake in the living room, there’s ten scratch tickets on the table for you to share, and he’s even gotten you your own glass to which he’ll put a controlled amount (a grand total of two long sips) of his own beer in. You’re not stressing about an essay this time, but the unconscious pout on your face is still the same.

“You’re awfully quiet.”

The frown on your face only goes deeper at being found out, the scratch of your lucky coin being the only clear thing that Yoongi hears. 

“My best friends want to have this slumber party,” you sigh, more upset about what you’ve just uttered than you are happy about the cash prize you’ve just won.

Yoongi takes what you say at face-value, groaning at his third straight loss for the night. “That’s great. Wear cute pajamas, snap a couple of polaroids, don’t be the first to fall asleep and last to wake up, and just keep a pocket knife with you when you’re going out by yourself.” 

The awe (and slight concern) over what he said should roll in any time now.

You should be comforted at Yoongi’s words because they’re supposed to ease the swirl of your stomach, even if what he just said is a repackaged version of what your family said before. You should let go of your worries because Yoongi, of all people, says that it’s supposed to be great.

Instead, you feel neither of what you think Yoongi wants you to.

“Was it something I said?” he mumbles after some time, turning his nose up at you as he tries to retrace his words. “I have an extra pocket knife you can borrow if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“We’re gonna be talking about boys, Yoongi,” you screw your eyes shut, sighing into the palms of your hands with a heaviness. “We’re gonna talk about crushes and experiences and all that.”

He shudders at that, his reaction mirroring Namjoon’s when you tried opening up to him. You get your brother’s reaction to a degree, of course, because you feel as if you’d be disgusted too if the roles were reversed. You want to talk about it with your mom too, but at the end of the day, she’s your parent and you just can’t talk about anything and everything with her. 

Yoongi’s your next plausible option.

“Do you want some ice cream right now? You know what, I’ll buy you-…” Yoongi tries to evade the topic altogether, his attempt of escaping feeble as you drag him down by his hoodie.

“I haven’t had my first kiss yet.”

“Heh.”

Yoongi shrugs at that, regaining his words when you deadpan at him. “So? What about it?”

You starfish on the floor at that out of frustration, the whine you’ve been bottling up coming out in the open because as usual, Yoongi doesn’t get it. “I-I’m probably the only one in my grade who hasn’t kissed someone yet! I can’t just lie carelessly because obviously, they’ll ask around.”

“So?” Yoongi chuckles, his breeze towards your state shocking you. “What’s it to them if you haven’t had your first kiss?”

“You don’t get it,” you grit through your teeth, crossing your arms so hard that it feels hard to inhale.

“I’m pretty sure I do,” he sing-songs, drinking the last of his beer. When you’re not looking though, he plans to either drink or chuck the remainder of your share because he doesn’t want you to develop a taste for it.

The anger you have for Yoongi bubbles up once again, the itch in your throat unbearable. You’re presented with the age gap between you once more, along with the raging emptiness in you that Yoongi’s reached so far and you’ve reached so little.

“You don’t get it because you’ve had all of these experiences when you were younger than my age right now,” you snap, although you don’t look at him when you do. If you do look at him though, you’ll only be reminded of how a face like his could have everything in this world — even a first kiss you’ve never had.

“Yeah, and so?” he knits his brows, growing defensive. You weren’t lying at all, but he still feels a little offended at the dig. He’s not not proud of it, but with the way you say it, it’s like you want him to burn in shame,

“Stop saying so,” you angrily mumble in frustration, a little breathless because you still don’t ease up on crossing your arms.

Yoongi straightens his posture, staring you down with his jaw set. He’s stern as he is, nostrils flaring in irritation. “No, Y/N. I’m genuinely asking — so what? What’s it to you if I had my first kiss at a younger age? What about it if everyone else in your grade has kissed someone and you haven’t? It’s not the end of the world.”

“I-I don’t know! It’s just unfair!” you let up, yielding to both the facts that Yoongi’s right with it not being the end of the world, and that you’re still entitled to feeling upset.

“Instead of spending time obsessing over your first kiss, maybe I don’t know,  try being productive? You’re heading to college soon and you haven’t even thought of a career,” Yoongi goes off on you, making you roll your eyes automatically. There he goes again with the great big push of trying to push you into your supposed passions in life. “Someone else’s luck doesn’t mean it’s already your misfortune.”

“But it is.”

You say it so definitively, you almost convince him. You have your principles and so does Yoongi, but not everyone else. You have your principles yet you don’t have the luck. You’re not getting anywhere in life just like Yoongi or anyone else who was remotely born into wealth, no matter how quiet or obvious.

You can’t pursue something that interests you in the slightest without thinking what would come out of it. You can’t think of a degree and a course you’ll stick with, enough to do for the rest of your life because the only other option is to fail completely if you don’t. You have no plan and no passion and you don’t know if you’ll ever amount to anything to anyone at all.

By all means, you don’t agree with Yoongi this time. Someone else’s luck is your misfortune, in the same way that his first kiss doesn’t mean that it’s yours.

The sidetrack to your argument is a closed case already, judging by your downcast gaze. “I just have to put myself out there, that’s all. My first kiss doesn’t even have to mean anything. I just want to have it,” you admit, shoulders relaxing.

“Don’t,” Yoongi groans, the opposite of you as his whole body tenses.

He thinks that you don’t get him at all.

“What do you meandon’t?”

Your argument’s long-over (atleast you thought it was) but Yoongi’s getting more agitated by the minute, the disbelief on his face throwing you off. “Don’t do things just because you feel like you have to! Are you even hearing yourself right now?”

“I don’t want to be left behind, Yoongi! That’s all I’m trying to get at,” you raise your hands in surrender, shrugging thoughtlessly — it makes him want yell into a paper bag in exasperation. “I don’t want to be picked last. I don’t want to not be wanted.”

Yoongi exhales, screwing his eyes shut. It stays silent like that for a little while; him calming himself down, and you scratching your tickets. The calm doesn’t stay for long because you open your mouth carelessly, again.

“Can you be my first kiss?”

“Are you insane?”

“Ugh.”

You go back to your fourth scratch ticket, pouting in disappointment. You’re unfazed about the win that’s probably the largest sum you’ve had ever since you started doing the lottery.

You’re upset and you’re sick in the stomach but you stay silent like you never asked Yoongi to be your first kiss; it’s like you haven’t indirectly admitted to him that you love him enough, more than so, to want him to be your first.

You’re about to scratch the final ticket when Yoongi juts his hand out, fingers barely brushing yours to stop you.

“On second thought, don’t scratch that. Just keep it.”

“Because you want to turn me into a hoarder too?” you snicker, heeding his suggestion regardless.

“Because I’m not going to be right about everything,” Yoongi mumbles, looking at you with a solemnness you can’t decipher.

You try until the solemnness turns into pity.

“Still don’t want to be my first kiss?”

Yoongi softly laughs to your face, smiling as he lets you down — whether easily or harshly, you can’t tell.

“You already know what I’m going to say.”

( ♡ )

You’d like to think that you’re not kept in the dark about most things.

You already know that although your mom hasn’t had any relationships since your dad left, she still has plenty of suitors. Some of them are the reason why you have random food deliveries in the middle of the dinner that she’s already cooked, some have sucked up to her by getting you and Namjoon gifts. 

You know about Namjoon’s growing love for football, even with the lessons he takes in secret because he didn’t want to trouble your mom for the money. It’s why he does his part-time job and why you’re looking for one anyways. You don’t want nor need much, so you almost always give him the remainder of your allowance by the end of each week.

Yoongi, on the other hand, you don’t know much about. You know that he’s an only child with a doting mom who works overseas and a rich but emotionally unavailable dad at home, and that’s about it. His home life is synonymous with yours, considering that your four walls have become an extension of his.

Maybe you’ve become too lenient on him — either that, or he’s become too disrespectful. It’s at times like these where your house is not his home, sickeningly so that you don’t want it to be yours either.

Yoongi is a sight to behold as he makes out with a half-naked girl on your bed, in your room. Your room has never been the neatest but with everything going on, it feels that it’s become the dirtiest that it’s ever been. Your house slippers are on the floor even if you always leave them by the entryway, and your sheets are a mess despite being one of the only things you try to keep folded in the room.

You’re angry, too much to the point that the words get caught in your throat. They catch onto bile and venom and everything at once, the strain in your voice heard when you yell.

“What the fuck?!”

Yoongi and the girl, whom you figure out to be Hyewon that he’s shared his first kiss with, jolt in unison. Hyewon’s scared shitless while Yoongi’s annoyed to death, the grunt he lets out pricking your ears further. “Sorry, sorry. She’s my best friend’s sister. She’s so annoying,” he drags you out of your room before he even gives you the entitlement to storm out of there in a fit of rage, seeing red the longer that he seems upset at you.

“What the fuck was that, Yoongi?” you grit through your teeth, the moment of you seeing red turn into white because you’re so frustrated that you could actually cry. Your chest’s heavy, not only out of rage, but out of everything that’s built up in the course of years.

“Can you keep it down?” Yoongi seethes, pursing his lips. “What, would you rather see us do it in the living room?”

“In the — what? Who do you think you are? This isn’t even your house, why are you bringing these girls here?” you point an accusing finger at him yet he doesn’t back away, his annoyance for you only growing tenfold.

He’s in the wrong no matter which way you look at it yet he doesn’t realize it, the epiphany that Yoongi genuinely thinks he’s in the right for doing this to you making your skin burn in fire.

“This is literally the first time I’ve ever done this! I can’t bring her back to my place, my dad has guests over!”

“So your smartest idea is to fuck someone in my bed?”

“Oh, you’re welcome. It’s the most action your four walls have ever seen,” he spits sarcastically, eyes narrowing at you. It takes little effort for him to dig up what you came to him for in worry and it terrifies you. The facet of Yoongi who had sternly told you that it was okay to be left behind if it means getting what you deserve, resembling nothing like him at the moment.

“I can’t believe you!” you whisper as you tremble, the tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. “I told you that in confidence.”

“In confidence? It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that you’re not exactly a catch, Y/N.”

You clench your jaw so hard that it hurts, you ball your fists so tightly that it stings.

You leave your home without saying another word.

.

.

.

Namjoon’s panicked.

He came home a little later than usual because he had maximized the life out of his soccer lessons, only getting the signal to leave when the lights were turned off. He was only slightly worried at the first place because he was supposed to cook dinner for the both of you, but he placated himself by realizing that you’re not the baby that he still thinks you are — you could cook dinner for yourself if you were hungry already.

He thinks nothing of it. In fact, he just makes a quick stop at the convenience store so the both of you could indulge in a liter of ice cream without your mom urging to leave some for another night. You could think of a recipe from scratch (and it almost always works out at the end), so Namjoon walked in fully thinking he’ll get to sniff whatever concoction you have.

Except, he walks into a completely dark house, and that’s when he panics.

He can’t find your slippers by the entryway and you’re not in your room either. You’re not at the other convenience store hunched over taking your chances on scratch tickets, and you’re not out on the street either going people-watching.

The panic rises in him the more that Namjoon grasps this is the first time that this has ever happened and he doesn’t know why. He’s always made an effort to be absorbed into both your personal and academic affairs, and as far as he knows, you’re neither in a sleepover nor on a field trip somewhere.

Namjoon thinks it’s his fault someway somehow, and the guilt can’t fully dissipate from him until he sees you.

“Hey, Yoongi,” he breathlessly gasps the moment his friend answers, the latter being surprised because he thought it was you who was calling him after what happened awhile ago.

It’s his fault and he’s realized that hours too late, and the selfish part of him thinks that it’s you calling at ten in the evening begging for forgiveness.

“What’s up, man? It’s late,” he wonders out loud, thinking for a second if they were too much of the Siamese twins that you tease them to be because he can’t think of a rational reason why Namjoon would call him at this time of night.

Namjoon raggedly exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, sorry about that. I’m just wondering if you’ve seen Y/N by any chance?”

Yoongi’s heart drops so loudly that Namjoon thought for second that his friend had hung up on him, his urgency being shared the moment that he asked.

“What? Y/N isn’t home?” Yoongi asks in disbelief, immediately being filled with anxiety and disbelief. Just awhile ago, the two of you were arguing outside of your room. He did hear you leave, but he had fully expected for you to be back hours ago. He’s wracked with guilt all over, the drop in his chest amplified by the pit in his stomach.

“She’s not. Practice ran late and I-I know she’s responsible so I didn’t hurry home,” Namjoon recalls, being more and more frazzled by the second. “She left her phone here, and mom isn’t here either because she’s visiting my grandparents, a-and I don’t want to call her because I know she’ll be worried, a-and-…”

Yoongi interrupts him, the tremble in his fingers only enabling him to dig his nails into his palm deeper. “I’m coming over. Let’s look for her together.”

It barely takes a minute for the both of them to come together, not even exchanging any pleasantries with each other before Yoongi steps on the gas. 

Namjoon’s filled with guilt, the type that only a sibling could carry as a burden. He thinks he was too selfish — too accustomed to pulling your own weight that it must have given you the impression that you had no other choice but to. Whatever it was that made you leave out of the blue, Namjoon thinks he could’ve done more. He should’ve came home and made you dinner as promised, for starters. He’s guilty over the fact that he’s the only close familial male figure in your life and he let this happen, as he makes Yoongi put his headlights on high-beam, scanning for anyone that looks remotely like you.

Yoongi, on the other hand, is filled with a guilt he can’t even begin to explain. It corrodes him from the inside-out in realization that he’s to blame for your sudden disappearance, the fact that Namjoon comes to him first to help find you not helping at all. If only your brother knew what he had done to you, he’s positive that he’ll be on the receiving end of a punch — what gets him more is that Yoongi wouldn’t blame him at all.

They see you in the bus stop two cities away, dressed in the same clothes you ran out with. 

Namjoon’s relieved beyond compare while Yoongi’s fuming, his hands tucked inside his jacket to prevent himself from squeezing you into an embrace; neither of you deserve it. 

There’s an underlying anger within Namjoon, one that lies behind the back of his throat as he checks you over for any injuries. The two of you walk ahead to Yoongi’s car while he himself trails behind, his heart significantly calmer than it was the past hour, yet nowhere near normal.

“Wanna tell me what you did?” your brother hums, trying to exhale the worry that’s embedded into him with each squeeze he gives around your shoulders.

“Went to the convenience store, bumped into my friends, then we took this impromptu roadtrip to go to the night market, then we all had our first actual shot of liquor and not just beer, my friend who owns the car turned out to be a lightweight, and now everyone just has to commute home,” you narrate in recollection, squeezing Namjoon back to try and ground him.

“Okay,” he answers simply, nodding. “Wanna tell me what happened before you did all those things?”

The breathless chuckle that leaves you is empty, void of any amusement at all. You smile nonetheless, unable to placate both yourself and Namjoon. “Nope.”

You arrive in silence to Yoongi’s car, the words unsaid between the three of you generating more tension than your brief disappearance itself.

Yoongi opens the front door for you, but you settle for sitting in the backseat.

[hotchfiles]

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ❝ the mood i'm in ❞ ─ an adhd chronicles blurb

pairing: aaron hotchner x fem!adhd!reader. summary: sometimes rearranging a whole entire closet is a biological need. content warnings: fluff, adhd antics (i'm diagnosed don't try to come for me) word count: 600+. a/n: this was requested by @ficmeoutofthisworld and i felt the need to make a blurb!verse of it, so expect more fluff for these three 🩵 & the idea of jack calling you honey came from honey is for love by @angellsell

“daddy, honey has that weird look again.” aaron can’t help but smile at his little boy, putting the files he was working on down on his desk, telling him to come closer with his hands. jack had gotten into the habit of calling you honey very early on in your relationship, that being one of the pet names aaron used the most when talking to you. it was too endearing to correct him, even after you moved in. you both just let the boy be, knowing that he would call you by name once he got older.

you didn’t mind him not calling you mom or any of its variants, even if the relationship you shared now was much alike mother and child, jack didn’t remember a lot of haley by himself, he was too little, but aaron always did his best to keep her memory alive in him, so if for his young mind it was easier to call you a pet name, you would take it every single time with a smile. and so would aaron. 

“what look, buddy?” he asks even though he’s sure he knows the answer, having been through that a few times over the last two years. 

“she’s staring at my stuff and sitting on the floor.” bingo. every once in a while you would get obsessed with something, it made sense after you were diagnosed with adhd and he learnt how to accommodate you properly, but for a while it was just a big clash of his organized and controlling nature and your chaotic mind. 

“let’s see what she needs, okay?” jack nods, leading the way with his dad closely behind. they find you exactly as his boy explained to him, sitting with your legs crossed on the floor, staring at his wardrobe so attentively it might scare the unknown eye. 

“darling? what’s going on?” he asks without entering the room, not wanting to invade your space before you called him in, instead he decided to lean on the door frame, observing you with his kind eyes.

“i want to rearrange all of jack’s clothes but we need more hangers for that and i don’t want to go to the store just to buy hangers, but i also can’t get up to go to the kitchen and check what else we need.” you answered quickly, finishing your ramble with a huff, dropping your shoulders and looking at your fiancé with a pout that made him get closer to you, offering his hands so you could have some support while getting up, you lazily do it, being embraced by him as soon as your feet touch the ground. 

“go watch something with jack, okay?” his tone is always soft, as if your conversations, even the silliest and mundane ones, were secrets for you two to keep. he knew you too well, so he prevented the whine he knew would come–you wanted to get this done, you needed to rearrange jack’s clothes or the itch in your brain wouldn’t leave–and he did so by holding both of your cheeks with his hands, making you look at him. “i’ll make the shopping list and then you both can go to target while i get some reports done.” you nod happily, his hands moving with your head. 

telling you to watch something with jack could seem like a mindless choice of words, but it wasn’t, aaron knew you were feeling stuck and how bad that made you feel, you needed a dopamine kick before you could do something, and no better way for that than colorful silly shows with your favorite boy.

by the time he’s done with the shopping list, you had already started another important project: napping on the couch with jack. so he leaves it attached with a magnet on the fridge, gives you both soft forehead kisses and goes back to work, not minding the fact he did it quickly for no reason, happy you were resting and that it was done for when you decided to shop.

[ickadori]

“Wow, that looks really good.”

“I’m not giving you any.”

“I don’t—I wasn’t going to ask for any! I was just paying you a compliment, Kento, geez.” You grumble, and he’d feel bad if he didn’t know this game play-by-play.

He’d eat at his desk, as always, and not even a second after his bento quietly clinked against the metallic desk you were wheeling your chair over to his cubicle, trying and failing to be quiet as the squeaky wheels gave you away. You’d hover for a few moments, ooh’ing and ahh’ing when he removed the lid, and then you’d throw out a compliment.

“That smells amazing, Kento!”

“God, you’re such an amazing cook! Did you, like, go to culinary school or something?”

“You should start a food blog or something, really. I think it’d really take off - I can set it up for you, actually!”

“Aw, you made a little face on the rice ball! I didn’t know you were artistic, Kento!”

And then a comedically timed stomach growl would sound, followed with a ‘I forgot my lunchbox on the counter again’ and a pleading look that could rival the beggars littering the corners - and Nanami was a nice enough man, so he’d usually split his bento in half, sometimes giving you a larger portion than his, but your begging was getting out of hand.

“I actually brought my own lunch today.” You proudly state, your hand thrusting forward to show off your lunch bag. It’s…childish, but with you being the youngest, and newest, hire in the office, he can’t say he’s all too surprised. “This is a new lunch bag, too, do you like it? I got it half off on clearance at the convenience store down the street. I had no idea they even sold them! It was hidden all the way in the back near the…”

You’re a chatterbox, and usually Nanami doesn’t like those, even goes out of his way to make himself scarce when the usual office gossips enter his vicinity, but he doesn’t mind you…too much.

“…what I brought today! I think you’re gonna be really jealous.” You snicker, and he’s forced to scoot his chair over as you plop your bag down on the desk next to his bento box and roll your chair forward. “But don’t worry, I’ll let you have some. It’s only fair, after all.” You practically rip the zipper in your haste to get it open, and the both of you blink at what’s found inside.

There’s a large thermos on its side, the contents that had been in it, a soup that did smell rather appetizing, floating around in the bottom of the bag. There’s a plastic ziplock bag in there as well that houses your crackers, although the hot soup had melted through the plastic and turned the crackers into a gooey mess. There’s a small container of chopped up fruit that wasn’t spared, the lid not having been shut correctly, and your plastic spoon is also a melted mess as well.

“…it said it was spill-proof.” You give him a pitiful look, and Nanami sighs through his nose as his knuckles rap against his desk.

“Did you put the top on right?”

“I thought I did.” You poke at the soup, yelping when you find out that it’s still hot, and you pop the singed digit into your mouth as you whine. “And I was so excited for you to taste it, too. It was my mom’s recipe.” You look dejected, sunny disposition nowhere to be found, and Nanami frowns at the restlessness that creeps up to settle in the pit of his stomach.

You close the lunchbox with a forlorn sigh, lips jutted out in a pout, and Nanami puts himself out there in a way that had grown foreign to him over the years.

“Do you have enough ingredients to make another batch?”

“Huh? Oh, uh, not at all. I kinda used up everything trying to make it taste right.” You flash him a sheepish smile. “This was the sixth batch I made—and it was really good, too!”

“If you’re not busy after work,” he feels a tad nervous, and his fingers itch to loosen the tie around his neck. “We could stop by the market and buy what you need. That way you could make it again tonight and just bring it in tomorrow.” A friendly, professional trip to the market, a small show of thanks for your failed attempt.

“Hm,” you tap your nails against his desk as you hum, and Nanami wonders for a second if he’s crossed some invisible boundary and will be called into HR in the morning. “I don’t think I trust myself with the thermos, to be completely honest. It would probably just end up spilled again…” Your eyes lock onto his as you smile, lashes batting and chair twirling back and forth. “How about you just come over to mine instead? That way you can get it nice, hot, and fresh? It’s best that way, y’know.”

Nanami wants to retreat, go back into his shell and keep the relationship professional, informal, safe, but then you’re twisting again, and your knee is brushing up against his, and he likes the contact a bit too much.

“Is it?” He questions.

“Mhm,” you nod. “I’ll even make sure to give you something sweet for dessert.”

“I’m not a big fan of sweets.”

“You will be after tonight.”

“..”

“Please email me your address at your earliest convenience.”

[nico-the-newt]

Dating Blaise Zabini would include...

Your first interaction being him asking you to the Yule Ball in fourth year

And at first you’re just kinda like “huh?” because you had never spoken to this kid in the four years you had been at school

But you somehow find yourself agreeing to go anyway

So you go to Hogsmeade with your friends and buy dress robes and a stupid pair of heels that you could barely walk in

The day of the ball you were shitting bricks and just wondering if you should pretend to be sick and then avoid Blaise for the rest of your schooling

And your friends are just like “fuck that - you are going to the ball and you will have fun”

And to your surprise - you did have fun

It was kinda weird at first, as the only other time you two had spoken was when he had asked you to the ball

But then you started actually having a conversation and it was as if something had clicked

(He had also sat out on the dancing with you when you twisted your ankle in the stupid heels, even though lots of people were inviting him to dance and he obviously itching to go)

It was a lovely night overall and you even shared a peck on the cheek at the end of the night but you didn’t show much interest in each other after that and basically went back to being strangers

That was until the following year when you joined the quidditch team and started reconnecting with him through that

So after a few months of chatting, flirting and training together he asked you on a date and you accepted

And the rest was history

You don’t really get along with each others friends

Your friends think he’s a bit of an arrogant dick and while you don’t deny that, you know how sweet he truly is when its only you two

And his friends are all the popular Slytherin kids so naturally they dislike you

Date nights on Saturdays which ranges from eating dinner on the astronomy tower to getting drunk and seeing how long you could play exploding snap in the library before getting kicked out (high score was half an hour)

Him not being a big PDA person

Not big on cuddles either but will still enjoy constantly touching and holding you (eg. Letting you lean into him or rest your head in his lap, holding your hand, running his fingers through you hair etc.)

Sneaking around for alone time

Its not as if you two don’t have anywhere to be horny idiots you both just get a thrill out of sneaking about

His mother inviting your family over for Christmas during your sixth year and you’re both nervous as fuck

Your parents being a bit iffy about your boyfriend and his mum purely because of the rumours about Mrs Zabini and her many husbands

Only Mrs Zabini is the loveliest person you’ve ever met in spite of her possibly being a murderer

Having a lot of arguments during the beginnings of your relationship because Blaise is bad at addressing his emotions and you’re too good at addressing yours which often ends up in a lot of miscommunications

Encouraging him to open up a bit more which leads to a bit more arguing

As you date for longer you both learn how to read each other a little easier which leads to less arguing

Breaking up during seventh year when you join DA

You both spend the year feeling even more depressed than you already were

Finding him after the fire in the room of requirement

Making up straight away and fighting side by side for the rest of the battle because you both realise that life is too short to not be with each other

And you also both know that theres a high chance of one of you dying

Vowing to never leave each other again after Voldemort is defeated

[wintersera]

Idk if ur ask are still open but do you mind writing cockwarming g!p gamer girl Gigi or winter (or both 🤩🤩idek how that would work tbhh) because they spend most their time gaming and staying up late and barley having time for you so you just sit there watching them play till they can't take it anymore and at the end they prove they still have love for us in the sloppiest, kinkiest, longest, dirtiest, slutiest, (i think you get it) sex ever just making us feel loved but also being so rough and dominate using us however they like 🫣🫣🫣🫣

Also Can I be 💩 Anon (idk I think it's funny)

cw: cockwarming, dom!winter WOAH, sub!reader

LMAOO 💩 anon??? feeling bad bc i let these imagines collect dust since i’m so focused on the stepcest jiminjeong fic 😭 but anyways!!

gamer minjeong,,, you have me interested. and gamer aeri?? i would write about her but i dont really see her as the gamer type hmmm maybe one day.

being sick and tired of minjeongs endless gaming sessions every damn day. like yess baby get that 5k on val!! but let me suck your dick while you’re getting that ace. saying shit like “minjeonngg, its been days when are we gonna have sex?”

her hitting you with the “just one minute i’m trying to plant the spike” like come on,, doesn’t hurt to have a little under desk support once in a while :((

and it was another day just watching her furiously tap at her keyboard- insulting people down the mic bc they didn’t defuse the spike, or they whiffed all their shots on a standing person…

ouhh,,, so sick of her paying sm attention to some silly characters on a screen that you get up from her bed, swivel the chair around, take her cock out and stroke it gently “mmm,, waittt y/n i need to buy shieldss waittt”

getting her rock hard was no issue. she’s a loser for gods sake, getting her hard came easy she also cums easily. you salivated at the sight of minjeongs massive cock, her precum pretty much oozing from her tip- man how you missed the sight “y/n pleeassee- i need to rank up,, please” she looked up at you with those cute puppy eyes you adored, and as much as it was working, you stayed calm. having an unbearable itch for her cock made it more easier for you to not give in.

“let me just,, ah- fuck okay. god, jeongie i forgot how big you were” to her surprise, you were already straddling her lap.

“ahh.. go on, keep playing” a steady sigh slipping out from your mouth,, her cock twitching inside of you?? seeing that she was pretty much over the edge by the way she was gripping her mouse. jeongie carried on playing like normal, a good 40 minutes of a new ranked game, but she was bottom fragging so badly that it made her jolt in her seat whenever she’d fuck up her shots. funnily enough, her moving in her seat wasn’t ideal bc she moaned every time she thrusted a little into your pussy 😭😭 (LEWSERR)

the more she moved in anger, the more she felt her cock getting harder- in which made her realise that she did, indeed, miss having sex with you. at least she was patient i guess? still focusing on her game because her new priority was winning so she could fuck you good.

jeongie ended up top fragging somehow? gaining 10 more kills and finishing up with a win!!! and with that happiness in mind, she stood up, carrying you with her cock still inside you “okay, mmm okay,, i’ll do it now” taking off her nerd ass glasses off of her face as she walked to the bed, your legs still being around her waist.

keep in mind that she still looks like a complete nerd rn, a biggg ass grin on her face bc she ALSO ranked up!! but then it suddenly changed, from nerd minjeongie to a surprising, but very dom looking gaze. you could see fire in her eyesngmgng making your cunt clench around her cock “…you’ve been so patient with me, you deserve a reward” she would ofc take it slow, her carefully rocking her hips and kissing you everywhere making you feel all loved. yk kissing your lips, deepening it by slipping her tongue in 🫣 breaking it to kiss you neck,, then your collarbone, and then peppering your chest with kisses too like,,, omg. her hands would be caressing your thighs, maybe even drawing some circles on your upper thighs bc shes just so loving like that (jeongie is definitely a thigh girl,, im not projecting i swear) would squeeze them every so often bc it gets both you and her going.

further into it she’d get so worked up. the way your moans would sound so sweet to her that her brain automatically switches off,,, no thoughts behind thoses eyes bc now she’s pounding your cunt so roughly. her hands that were playing with your tits where now squeezing and fondling them aggressively- she’d make you such a mess that it would literally end up with you looking so fucked out. leaving so many hickeys on your neck to prove that she still loved and appreciated you. her thrusts became erratic and messy, like your arousal was everywhere on the sheets and everything,, mmm being so pussy drunk that she’d take your legs and put them on her shoulders and rubbing your clit so roughly, but with care if that makes sense?

her face basically said everything. biting her lower lip and her brows furrowing, she was close to cumming. the way she was gripping onto the sheets and moaning so loudly your neighbours could hear, it made you grow closer to. finally jeongie came- her high pitched moan sent you overdrive, your pussy clamping down hard on her that no drop of cum leaked out as you milked her dry 😭

by the end she was exhausted as fawk.. having to work hard for val and working hard to please you GIRLY WAS OUT.. PASSED TF OUT!?!? but you were happy nonetheless,, finally getting minjeong to fuck you after god knows how many days.

—

mhngng gamer minjeong come over rn i need you badly,, also lawl if this is bad OOPSIES i think i lost my smut writing abilities

[tikus-library]

"Books to Bread"

Night Hunter AU

Characters: Walter Marshall x Reader

Posted: Feb 10th

WARNINGS: none?

A/N: Have a draft dump. I want to do more for this, but life is a bit chaotic rn. I haven't posted in a minute, so this is one of my many hidden drafts. I did attempt to edit but 🤷‍♀️

Like, Comments, & Reblogs are always appreciated and loved.

**Please Do Not Repost or 'Fix' My Work**

It was hard to miss the guy.

Definitely over six foot, dark unruly curls framing a serious face with a thick beard, thick dark brows drawn down as a scowl marred his lips. Nice lips, you thought, eyes raking over his tall muscular form. No better than a man, you scolded yourself with a smirk.

You shifted, careful not to draw attention to yourself as the other women in the book shop didn't even try to hide the way they ogled him.

In the town of Port Tenebris there weren't many that looked like him and plenty more women ready to welcome him. You had heard there had been a recent new body that had moved into town, ex-detective, if gossip was right…

“I've read that one.”

You jumped at the low smooth voice that came from beside you and looked over and then up… and up again till you met deep vibrant blue eyes. You swallowed as he reached out with one thick arm, fingers catching your elbow as he offered you a smile in apology.

“I didn't mean to surprise you…?”

The way he lifted an eyebrow meant he was asking for your name, instead you looked down at the book in your hands, “into romance?” You asked instead.

He held the smile, “not ashamed of it,” he answered, “and that one is actually more of a forensic thriller.”

You narrowed your eyes at him as he offered you a quick tilt of his head and a smile before going back to looking at the books in front of you. “It's a romance,” you stated.

He flipped through the book in his hands, it looked tiny, he shrugged without looking at you. He had of course seen you enter the bookstore, not that he had been following, no. He had most definitely not followed you from the tiny diner where you had verbally assaulted a jackass of a man that had been handsy with the young waitress there.

He simply wanted to get your name. Maybe your phone number… how did he do this again?

“It's a romance,” you said again. “I have every book by Billie Martinez, she writes romance.”

“I mean,” he shrugged again, suppressing the smirk that itched to fight its way to his lips, out the corner of his eye he saw you turn to him and scowl. This was something, ever since he'd stepped foot in this little Port every woman had given him the look, it had been amusing at first.

“Explain.”

He coughed to hide the short laugh that escaped him, “she hides it under the romance, but, when you read it you'll understand. You'll also want to slap the shit out of the male lead.”

You looked down at the book in your hands, he let his eyes wander to your curvy waist, “maybe… I shouldn't get it” you mused, thinking of the man at the Cafe you had laid into, “I think I've had my fair share of irritating men for the day.” He made a noise that had you looking up in time to catch his tongue flick out over his bottom lip, eyes jerking up to meet your gaze.

Had he…? No.

He cleared his throat, “fair,” it was all he could think of and watched as you started to put the book back, “but I could pay for it and then you'll not regret leaving it behind.”

You sighed, this conversation had already gone on longer than you had wanted. You had purposefully been attempting to avoid talking to him as conversations with others always seemed to go awry. In a weird way. You supposed it was your fault, no one else had that problem really.

“No, no need to buy me a book when you don't even know me.”

“Walter.”

You took a small step back, a little confused.

“Walter Marshall, Im… th-thats my name,” he smiled awkwardly, turning to you and shoving a hand into his pocket. “I started work in the Bakery in town? Owned by Kate and her husband? Uh, they offered me a job there… Now I'm not a stranger.”

You nodded, fingers tapping at the book's spine, before letting your arm drop to your side. “Nice to meet you Walter Marshall, who works in the bakery owned by Kate and her husband. I should be going.”

He had struck out yet again. Sighing heavily as you stepped away and made for the front of the store. He snatched the book up and hurried after you, eyes falling on your ass, before he rolled them scolding himself silently.

“Please, no name, let me buy you the book then. You collect her books and it'll be incomplete.”

You pulled away from him, studying him warily.

He knew that kind of look and took a step back. “I'll leave you alone,” he hummed, turning away, he shouldn't have pushed. Maybe you had moved here to hide yourself, he understood that.

“Alright,” he heard you sigh and turned around quickly. “But don't complain if I come down to find you at the bakery and yell at you there about the dumb male lead.”

Walter grinned, “you won't hear a complaint from me.” He watched you tilt your head to the side, enjoying how easily he could read your thoughts clear in your expression. “I'll even treat you to something I've baked.” Your eyes jumped back to his face, something he decided he wanted right then and there. To have your full and complete attention. “To apologize for dumb males that is.”

You snickered, eyes lighting up, “then I hope you are a baker of delicious sweets and golden bread!”

He almost forgot to breathe as your eyes scrunched up beautifully as you laughed. “You'll fall in love with my bread and butter,” Walter flashed you a toothy grin as he led you to pay for the book, “plus, this is essential to the series. You can't miss out on this book.”

“Oh, no! Then absolutely buy it.”

You followed along, noting the pairs of eyes tracking the two of you. There would be gossip and questions, a little inconvenient but nothing you couldn't handle. He thanked the cashier who nodded wordlessly and stepped towards the door where he paused, dragging a pen out of his pocket and scribbling on the receipt, tucking it into the cover of the book.

“In case the bakery is closed and you want to yell at me.”

You felt your neck heat, he wrote in all capitals, clear and neat. He crossed his sevens, huh. “No promises.”

*

Walter scowled at his phone, yet was quick to flick the screen and scan the words there blearily. It was past three am and he was due up in an hour to begin baking.. right. He was a baker now.

Unknown: I love thick slices of warm bread with butter that melts beautifully.

Unknown: He deserves to be run over…. Multiple times.

Unknown: what an idiot. He let her walk away?!

He sat up and smiled.

WM: I did warn you, suppose I owe you bread.

Unknown: Y/N

WM: ?? Uhh, which character?

Unknown: my name is Y/N

Walter woke up fully.

WM: nice to meet you Y/N.

Leave Kudos on Ao3

[theresattrpgforthat]

It would be awesome if you could recommend some solo ttrpgs! I've been getting into them a lot lately and want to know more of what's out there. Especially journalling ones, as I enjoy creative writing. So far I've looked into (and will probably buy soon) Firelights, Apawthecaria, and Fox Curio's Floating Bookshop.

Also, I love this blog a ton. Already there have been some awesome games I've learned about from you, including the one you're currently working on. Excited to give it a try sometime! Keep being amazing 💜.

Theme: Solo Journalling Games

Thank you so much for your kind words! I'm certainly excited to run Protect the Child for folks, play-testing it so far has been really fun!

As for your ask, solo games and journalling go hand in hand. These next few games are just a sampling of what I've added recently to my Solo Games folder on Itch.

Cats Know Things, by Mushroom Witch Games.

CATS KNOW THINGS is a light-hearted game meant to tell a humorous story of intrigue, all while pretending to be a very nosy cat. 

But you are no ordinary cat.

You are a very special feline who, through some magic you cannot explain, can communicate with your human, an individual who wishes to make their mark in society by any means necessary. The two of you decide to start a society page, (a very fancy type of tabloid newspaper dedicated to a particular location) revealing the glitz, glamour, and inner turmoil of the town’s most notable individuals. 

Use a d6 and a d10 to generate numbers, and sneak into places to listen into secret or private conversations. Then bring this news to your human companion, so that they may relay this gossip in the local society page. You need to find 6-8 scintillating stories before the week is up, so that your human has enough to print.

If you want a game full of scandal and cute furry little rumour-mongers, this might be the game for you!

Lingering, by Meghan Cross.

The last thing you remember, you were dying.

Now, breath fills your lungs once more and your eyes open, slowly shifting side to side as you attempt to regain your bearings. You are alive. But you are…changed. Your human form is gone, and in its place is one that is different, foreign, animal…

In Lingering, you play as a person who has died, only to find yourself alive again in an animal form, unable to move on to your eternal rest until you settle business left unsettled from your life. 

Throughout the course of a game, you will make several attempts to communicate with a chosen human, hoping to convey a message to them so they can assist you and help you move on once and for all. 

This game uses a deck of cards and some guiding adjectives to determine how your attempts at communication will go. Over eight rounds, you’ll flip cards while guessing as to whether each card will be higher or lower than the previous one, and a successful guess means a successful interaction. The details of those attempts are what you’ll be journalling, and Lingering provides a number of questions that you might try to answer with each attempt.

This game takes place over eight rounds, so it’s excellent if you want a short, contained game. It also has a two-player option if you want to try this game out with a loved one.

Dragon Dowser, by HatchlingDM.

Dragon Dowser is a solo journaling RPG using the Carta SRD by Peach Garden Games. You play a mysterious character known as a 'Dowser'. Your aim is to locate abandoned dragon eggs and return them to your Sanctuary. If you succeed before expending your resources, the hatchling you rescue will be reared to change the kingdom forever! 

This is a lovingly crafted game that uses card suits to represent four different kinds of ways your character will be tested, as they interact with different cultures, explore new landscapes, and dea with various conflicts, both human and nature-made.

You’ll travel across a grid of cards that provide you with journaling prompts as you travel. You’ll expend resources to overcome obstacles, looking for a dragon egg, represented by an Ace! Once you return this egg to a sanctuary, you’ll journal about your experience of raising the hatchling. Based on the games you’ve mentioned so far, I think Dragon Dowser is right up your alley.

EDEN, by blasez-faire.

You are Judaiah Clark, the Head Botanical Researcher at the Southern Sector of Eden. You are here for exactly 10 days, and were a last minute choice after the sudden disappearance of ■■■■■■ ■■■■■, the last person to hold this position. You are not here for work. Investigate.

EDEN is a single-page game that takes place over the course of 10 in-game days, with two questions that you will have to answer in your journal for every day. You are expected to write up a report with detailed notes, so much of the extrapolation taken from each pair of questions is going to come from your own imagination. To help with this you might want to come up with names for other characters, draw a map of the Southern Sector, or go into detail about the plants that this research station grows.

One thing is for sure - this is going to be a horror story. If you like games that give you a lot of room to stretch your creative wings, and you also like writing terrible endings for your characters, you might like this game.

Black Mountain Numbers Station, by Simon de Vet.

You wake one morning to the sound of a voice on the radio reading a series of numbers. On impulse, you jot them down. These numbers will become your life.

Black Mountain Numbers Station is a one-page, solo-journaling game about a mysterious broadcast, and about finding patterns in randomness. Using a unique dice mechanic to prompt you to describe your journey, you will tell a short story of obsession, frustration, and discovery.

This game is uses a 6x6 grid with boxes that you’ll need to fill when you roll a pair of dice. You’ll trigger evens when you roll doubles or find a certain pattern on the grid as you fill it, and in both of these cases, you’ll write special journal entries. The game ends when you fill your Frustration track, which symbolizes listening for too long without learning anything new. What exactly you learn, however, is up to you.

Bound, by K Ramstack.

Bound is a single player setting agnostic game about the connection between two people as they travel to a destination through the destruction of the world on a journey they will most likely not complete.

You will create two characters, their relationship to one another, the destruction that haunts them, and the motive for them to move forward.

During the game, you will be asked to write scenes in first person, switching perspectives between characters, and using their personality traits and subjective conceptualizations of each other to answer prompts.

Bound has a single and two-player version, and uses two decks of playing cards, one for each character. Each card will relate to a prompt on the prompt table, but only the highest ranked prompt will be answered. Each prompt will ask a question about the relationship, and how it changes.

If you want a deeply emotional game with a beautiful layout and lovely art, this is the game for you.

The Narrator Paradox, by psychound.

The Narrator Paradox is a one page solo-narrating game where you try to tell a story … if your protagonist will let you. In it, you determine the five acts of your story based on an oracle, then make rolls for your plot beats to see if you can wrangle your protagonist into the prescribed narrative. If you can't, they defy you and take the story into their own hands. Wrestle the story into shape against a rebellious hero, or lose them forever and have to finish the story without them in it. 

Using the Major Arcana of a tarot deck, two six-sided dice and a coin, The Narrator Paradox has a number of different ways that you’ll try to keep your story on track. However, with so much randomness, your protagonist is sure to have a mind of their own. This feels very much in tune with how many writers talk about their characters as if those characters have their own desires, so if you’ve ever related to that you might enjoy this game.

Also Check Out...

My Solo Games tag! I use this tag for every recommendation post specifically for solo games.

[choiwonder]

FIRST KISS . HAN JISUNG

tw/cw ༝ 0.8k wc, ummm a little tiny bit suggestive, hints of pining, teasing, making out, my little interpretation of college/frat boy jisung, i am actually going over shakespeare and hamlet in class so i’m lowkey projecting, hyunjin is a cockblocker!!!!

“hey,” han steps aside as he opened the door.

you look around the house, not surprised by the amount of drinks, trash bags and food surrounding the kitchen. being a close friend of hyunjin would initially lead to you being constantly invited to his parties, “hey, where’s hyunjin?”

“he just went out to buy snacks for you guys.”

“oh, okay,” you nod, setting your bag down on the couch. you place your notebook, papers and laptop to prepare for tonight.

“what’re you guys going over tonight?” jisung asks, taking a seat and looking over what you set down on the table.

“shakespearean drama and the tragedy of hamlet,” you sigh, eyes lifting away from your phone and over to his, “we need to discuss the theme, its significance and the relationship of hamlet and horatio.”

han shook his head, leaning back, “so glad i don’t have to deal with that shit anymore. my classes are way better this year.”

“oh, yeah,” you smile, copying the way jisung leaned back on the couch and moved a few inches closer, “i forgot you switched majors… what’re you doing now?”

“dance.”

impressed by his response, your eyebrows raise. han’s lips stretch at your reaction, his body impulsively turning to face you.

“surprised?”

“kinda.”

he feigns offence, “why? what’d you expect?”

“maybe rap or producing,” you laugh as if it was obvious.

while hyunjin always invited you out, jisung was also there and you couldn’t help but admire him from afar. though you knew he was a good dancer, you also took notice at how good he was at rapping, singing and producing music. you were astonished and respected him for being hardworking and remaining humble.

“i know it’s something you’re good at… plus,” you voice drops down to a whisper and your hand aims for him to come closer as if someone was listening to this conversation. han leans over, fulfilling your request when his ear is next to your lips, “you’d look really hot working in a studio.”

jisung leans back, just enough for your faces to be inches apart. he could only smile at your comment, his pearly whites peeking through. his deep brown eyes flicker across the features of your face, solely focusing on the canvas of your lips.

han sucks in a breath, his hand carefully placed on your knee, itching to caress the palette of your thigh, “… do you think hyunjin would care if i kissed you right now?”

“mmmmm…. maybe,” you shrug with a small smile. if hyunjin were to find his two best friends kissing each other he’d likely throw a fit about how weird it is; but that was the least of your concerns, this conversation with jisung was far more important.

jisung falsely pouts, lightly squeezing your cheek, “well that’s too bad,” he pulls away with a sigh, all the warmness drafting from his skin vanished all too soon.

“such a tease,” you huff, rolling your eyes. you knew he wanted you to plead and beg for something as simple as a kiss but your stubbornness was stronger than his desire to see you compliant, “i have homework to do, go away.”

“aw, don’t be like that,” jisung laughs, “here, come, i’ll give you a kiss.”

you roll your eyes again, pushing him away as he tugs on your arm, but he doesn’t budge, his strength completely pulling you towards him. like mere seconds ago, han places his hand on your knee, leaning in close enough his mouth hovers centimeters above yours.

his free hand cups your cheek and you wait for him to make the first move but he does nothing except lean you back against the couch.

you heart thumped out your chest, yearning for this exact moment. you caved just as jisung hoped you would, but he only pulls back by a centimeter to watch you continuously feen for a kiss.

of course, knowing you’d push him away with no qualms of forgiveness, he finally fills the gap that settled between you. is this a dream? you think, feeling and adoring the way he drops his body weight, his knee resting idly between your legs. jisung hums, his hand moving up your thigh and under your shirt.

you quickly grip the back of his head, holding him close to you as he dares to pull away. from what was initially a simple first kiss turned into a mini makeout session. han could only chuckle, his breath intake reaching its limit, “you know i would love to continue but hyunjin’s here…”

a sigh of disappointment left the traces of your lips, you kiss han once more before moving away from him. he smiles, squeezing your cheek, ready to report back to his room, “don’t miss me too much, alright?”

taglist: @luvrhyune @ttyunz @uno7

© choiwonder ༝ do not copy, translate, modify or repost any of my work on any platform, or claim it as your own.

[satoriberry]

"there's no ink." "yer kinda cute." - karasu tabito

★ resume: you need to make photocopies of a correction sheet for all 35 of your classmates. also, karasu can't use printers.

★ heads up: karasu is potentially ooc but imo he acts the way he does when it comes to football outside of bllk he's CRINGE BOOOOO, reader has hair that can be tucked behind her ear so it can be short or long yknow and uhhh nothing else ig, maybe just karasu being cringe but what's new. also reader is so fucking sick and tired of people in this so she's a bit rude but its justified :3

★ berry's note: oh wow im WRITING!! [😱😱] n e way, i hate this guy a lot and i cant imagine him excelling at using a printer by himself, so time to make a cutesy scenario out of it where he makes a fool of himself!!! enjoy!! :3

maybe it was because of the big, fat, red "57" that was surely an adequate and representative grade for your work - and not just your geography teacher being a bitch - but for some arbitrary reason, an itch developed in the back of your brain and made you feel a bit less tolerant of stupidity. at least until you get back home and sleep like a comatose patient.

you felt a slight comfort in knowing that even the self-proclaimed class genius got a gut-wrenching 60 on the same test, which isn't the nicest way of finding inner peace, but who cares? besides, geography is for losers who want to make statistics about the declining birth rate, and you couldn't care less about women giving birth to less and less children with each passing decade. strutting down the empty hallway, you gripped the sheet containing the answers to the questions with a bit too much intensity and aggression, slightly creasing it in your hand but you had bigger things to worry about. the printer room.

the godforsaken printer room - that served as the only motive to still keep hallway number 4 of the third floor accessible - possessed a myriad of faults and problems, the worst one being that they rarely kept the ink fresh; 'they' being the student body whose only involvement was that. keeping the ink fresh. they didn't even have to buy it, their only job was checking the printer's ink every 4 to 5 days and replace the cartridge if needed so. but, suprisingly (considering how competent they usually are), no one was bothered enough to accomplish this single task. nevertheless, it seemed that you weren't the student to first stumble upon this inconvenience today. the door to the printer room was slightly ajar and the lights were clearly on, so someone had to be in there.

taking the final steps, you lightly pushed the door all way to the end and gazed upon the wall where the (shitty) printers sat on an alignment of old desks. there was someone, you knew that already, but that someone seemed a bit familiar.

oh. it's that super soccer guy from bambi osaka. kawaru tamiko.

or at least you thought that was his name. you weren't good with names.

he was leaning forward against a table carrying an old canon®, tilting it forward with a grip on either side, and his hair flattened against the wall. almost like a person checking the label on the back of a cargo box that was too heavy to move. he was probably trying to look at the wires in the back, there was no other explanation for such an awkward posture.

it took him a few seconds to notice your presence, partly because he was so engrossed in the printer, and partly because you didn't care enough to say a word and instead opted for standing awkwardly with a hand on the doorframe. he turned his head towards you a first time and immediately went back to the printer before rapidly turning his head towards you again, this time fully absorbing your existence. kawaru abruptly let go of the table, producing a loud noise as it hit the wall, making you slightly wince at the idea of an even more damaged printer. you walked towards him.

running two fingers on the dust coating the surface of the printer, you lazily muttered, "it's not working, is it?", expecting nothing less from junk that was probably in use from before the fall of the soviet union. he had stood up straight and begun to awkwardly swing his arms back and forth, a clear attempt at de-stressing. "err, no, pretty sure there's a wirin' problem," he answered, though you were moreso talking to yourself than him, but that didn't matter.

"and uhh, this button right here hasn' stopped flashin' ever since i turned the thing on. prob'ly needs a technician," he continued, forcing a more assertive tone towards the end. you asked him to show you what button he was talking about, so he eagerly pointed at a flashing button located on the left side control panel of the printer. a button that had the image of an opaque drop on it. a button that had the faded word "ink" written underneath it.

the printer was working fine. it just needed ink.

and he thought it was broken.

you stood there in silence, physically and mentally unable to comprehend how someone can miss such an obvious clue. you didn't take your eyes off the flashing button, breathing quietly, trying your best to not lash out on kawaru. you noticed a frizzy lock of hair sticking out from your head and proceeded to tuck it behind your ear, then put your hand over your mouth in an attempt to hide your frustration, eyes still on the flashing button.

karasu, on the other hand, was waiting next to you, though his eyes were moreso fixated on you than the printer. did he know you? he didn't think so, but you seemed like someone he can find interest in, definitely the thinker kind since you appeared to be pondering a solution to this ordeal in a rather sophisticated manner. other questions flowed through his mind: what class were you in? were you a 3rd year? were you in the advanced course? did you have any mutual friends? did you do any extracurriculars? did you like soccer? have you ever been to one of his matches? he couldn't stop the flow of possiblities as to how to get to know you.

"there's no ink." "yer kinda cute."

you slowly turned your head to face him, body stiff and unmoving. he realized how outlandish the comment he just made was, and possibly inappropriate considering the circumstance.

"huh?" "what?"

you blinked at him with gradually developing bewilderment, fully certain that you heard what you heard but that didn't change the fact that you weren't awaiting that from him.

and sadly, you couldn't say that it displeased you. the opposite actually.

"i err, i...anyway, you said ink? there's a few cartridges in the desk's cubby. whaddya need? black? magenta? cyan? yellow?", he started to speak again at a fast pace, wanting to get done with this interaction and dwell in sorrow from his incapacity to talk to cute girls. "black's fine," you answered, looking away to make it less embarrassing from him. he dug in the cubby for a moment, hand banging the sides of the metal compartment before he got hold of a blocky object. he read the cartridge's sticker and made sure it was black ink before standing up again.

you expected him to press the button that dislodged the upper half of the machine and replace the cartridge, however, he stood quietly, fiddling with it while nervously looking at and away from you multiple times. oh. he doesn't know how to replace ink. exhaling through your nostrils, you stuck out your hand, wordlessly demanding him to hand it over - an order he prompty followed.

karasu felt you snatch the cartridge before he could even fully place it on your palm, making him feel even more guilty for wasting your time. he watched as you effortlessly pressed a series of buttons, took out things, replaced things and before he knew it, you snapped the top of the printer back on, which caused the flashing button to stop doing so. was he a loser or were you just a printer connoisseur? he didn't care enough to think of an answer though, he was once again focused on subtly seducing you and make you notice his more pleasant qualities.

you chose to ignore him for the rest of your stay in the printer room, procuring 35 copies of the sheet and preparing to leave when you felt a hand (his hand) lightly tap you on your back.

"yes?," you said, though you recognize you could have said it with a bit less bluntness in your voice. he took no notice of this however, and asked, "what's yer name? i think we've met before."

"(last name) (first name). no, we've never met, or at least i don't think we did," you replied before staring at him with more attention than before, noticing a few details about him that you missed. for example, the mole on his upper left cheek, or the weird angle at which his hair was styled. what kind of fucking product would you need for that?

"ah, hahaha, my bad, i was prob'ly thinkin' of someone else. umm, i...i meant what i said earlier," he mumbled his words more and more. you raised an eyebrow, not getting what he meant by 'what i said earlier', before remembering that he had called you cute. oh, right. that happened.

you involuntarily flashed a face of understanding, then lowered your head to bite your cheek. you didn't want to look like a loser while trying to hide your smile, a smile you rarely gave to guys with bad flirting skills, albeit this one was of the more good-looking variety so you can superficially excuse his lack of skills. "thanks, that was very sweet. i wasn't expecting it but it's still sweet. thank you."

"i can help ya' carry those papers to your classroom, that looks a bit heavy-"

"it's fine, really. but i do have a question. what's your name?"

his expression changed from nervous suaveness to a giddy grin, feeling honoured that you were interested in his name. "karasu tabito. i play for the local youth team, bambi osaka. you didn't ask fer that but, y'know...," ah. that was his name. karasu tabito. kawaru sounded a bit too childish for a guy like him.

"karasu tabito. yeah, i've seen you play. you're fun to watch." you tried to lighten the mood a bit cause the boy was seconds away from developing a rash if he kept scratching his neck like that.

"fun to watch? me? oh, thanks. i've been called a 'good player' and 'excellent' even, but 'fun', i've never gotten that before. w-whaddya mean by that though? what's fun, my playstyle or my presence or-,"

you couldn't afford wasting any more time than you already have, so cutting him off, you replied, "fun as in watching you in your element is rather entertaining, i don't do much sport outside of PE, but i can tell you love what you do. sorry, i have to leave, my teacher is gonna be up my ass about taking so much time."

karasu's lips formed a thin line, bitter about not making much of this exchange. and before he could even hold himself back, his mouth let out, "wanna watch my practice after school? you don't have to stay fer the whole thing, jus' to show you how i play outside of official matches."

"sure."

"what? hu-"

"i said, 'sure'. i'll watch you, i'll even stay for the whole practice, i've got nothing. catch you at the shoe lockers, bye."

and with that (plus a quick smile to soften the blow), you speedwalked out of the printer room and began to go down what felt like a dozen floors.

you didn't allow yourself to think about what happened up there, to avoid cringing at your bizarre attitude and not think about the fact that a (weird) guy you would consider somewhat out of your league, just asked you to watch him play.

bonus!!

lunch break finally rolled around, and your friends typically hung out in an obscure part of the courtyard to eat while hiding their cellphones from any faculty members. checking your messages, you noticed an instagram dm from someone whose username already crossed your mutual recommendations but you never took the time to open their profile.

kr_tabito23.

-> coach is sick but i still want an excuse to talk to you

-> there's this really rad crepe shop in namba parks

-> im paying :]

-> you can't say no

-> lol kidding

-> sorry that was weird

you giggled at whatever he was trying to achieve, he was definitely a dork. you didn't mind that.

-> sure. still gonna catch you at the shoe lockers c:

and somewhere in the school, on the opposite side of the main building, next to the fountain where he and his friends usurped the benches, karasu jumped from his seat and into the air, bumping his fist and yelling unintelligible words while his friends watched, confused but happy for their normally cool and collected fellow.

★ berry's post-writing note: guys im gonna be honest i hate the ending my inspiration juice ran out so i just came up with something but i feel like it could've been a bit better. still happy that i wrote something cause ive been in a long ass writer's block since?? what??? february? anyway, criticism is always accepted and uhh thank you for reading till the end!! <3

[honeeslust]

Toji Fushiguro | The box

🖤 I'll be honest. I drew inspiration for this after watching Dexter. But initially,  there was that comment from a reader on wattpad asking for a fic where homeless Toji fucks us in a box.

… Also, @biscuitsngravie @blkkizzat @littlemochabunni @ryomens-vixen have me stuck on Toji who calls you mama/mamas. Like are you kidding me?? I'm folding immediately!

Anyway….

Challenge accepted!

🖤I suck at TW’s but maybe this Toji is manipulative and posessive. Its not crazy but just know its implied.

🖤 WC 3K+ (it’s a bit jumpy cause i really didn’t proof read. My bad. Im tired 😩)

Wait!!

is that..?

No that can't be.

I'm trippin'.

In all of .5 seconds, that's what races through your thoughts when you caught sight of him. No way that Adonis-looking creep who just winked at you was your toxic AF ex.

The one who got your car towed last year, maxed out your discover card and put your boss in a cast for 6 weeks. All that after you had bailed him out for. Although…your boss might've had that coming to him.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He just had to be at this bar of all places?

Eyeing... NO!  Eye fucking you, as you moved your body to the music. How long had he been watching you?

Toji stood back, confident that he had stolen your attention away from your date. He hated the way he was touching you, but wouldn't cause a scene. Not unless he had to.

He preferred this anyway. He knew what he was doing. Getting under your skin a little before dragging you back into the 3ring circus that was his life. How could you blame him? You'd left him so suddenly and he couldn't handle that. No! He refused to handle that.

He just wanted you to know how bad he wished he could take back all the dumb shit he put you through before. It wasn't his fault. The only reason he maxed out your card gambling was to get the cash he needed to buy back that Cadillac Deville he stole from your uncle. He didn't know it was a prize winning collectors item. too bad you never gave him a chance to say that.

Meanwhile, there you are on the dancefloor. Acting as if you didn't care.

Nope! There was no familiar pang of excitement rippling through you. There wasn't a need to feel those hands on you instead of the ones that were touching you now. You were easily ignoring that tight black tee he wore. Your eyes were not drawn to that faint line running down the center, barely concealing that line between his abs that you loved to carve out with your tongue.

Pathetic. You're fucking pathetic y/n. Thats what you thought as you ground your hips against the guy you were dancing with, wishing you had any substantial amount of will power in you to just disappear out the back door.

Shiiit! Suddenly the hands on your waist brought your attention back to them. Ugghh. you weren't in the mood to dump him. You were more inclined to hurry this along to let your ex scratch that itch that only he could.

Maybe......

After all, he didn't know where you lived now. Just one night wouldn't hurt. Yeah. Fuck it!

Uhh, my friends here, sorry I gotta go. you hollar  into your dates ear.

As what would likely be the dumbest decision you could ever make had your feet moving in his direction. You could almost see the 4th wall breaking and a little blurred out blip of yourself screaming over your shoulder, look at this big bobble headed ass dummy!! Bitch! What the fuck are you doing?

You ignored the blaring red flags and ear ringing sirens going off in your head and proceeded to exit the sea of swaying bodies.

You make your way to the bar where he sits, a conceited grin on his face, that scar on his lip pulling to the side damn near making you forget just how much he was all kinds of wrong.

He stares you down, not a hint of shame in his eye as his enamoured gaze swept from your lips to your chest and down to your hips.

He pulls you into a soul pleasing hug,  chrushing your body against his, nuzzling his nose into your neck and telling you how good you looked. You shuddered, feeling a tattooed hand possessively gripping your ass and squeezeing too tight.

Cmere. Missed you mamas.

He smells all cedery and sweet, probably some expensive shit he stole from someone elses gym bag. Ether way, the scent clouded your judgement with the memories of the damage he could do with just that hand alone.

He'd once clocked a guy so hard he swallowed his own teeth. You remember the way he just couldn't stand it when someone thought they could have what was his. It was brutal. But damn, that look in his eye was everything... fuck.

He apologized for that didn't he?

If memory served, and it did now that he was standing in front of you looking all kinds of tall tan and handsome.

Yeah, he did. With his tongue until you thought your heart would actually stop if he didn't.

Now you were thinking, Was what he did really that bad? It was just uncle Earl. Who didn't even come to your 3rd grade dance recital cause he had the flu.

Your morals had died about two shots ago and what ever self preservation you had left had fucked right off into oblivion.

Now, instead of that nervous ache in your gut telling you he'd hurt you all over again, there was a fire burning. The flames stoked by the thrill of not knowing how this would end up. But you simply didn’t care. As long as tonight, you ended up on underneath him.

Hmm. If that dress was any tighter I might have to actually get a fancy job to buy you more.

Maybe you should just buy a shirt that ain't so fucking tight it's screamin I don't fit you!

Ouch he mocks you, laughing at your terrible dis. You're agitated already. Just what he hoped for.

Hmm. He nods drawing his lower lip under his teeth.

That's too bad.

What's that? You asked leaning to hear him over the music.

It's a shame. He ain't fuckin' you right. I can tell.

'Fuck. Why did he have to say that? Here we fuckin go!'

Excuse me. The fuck is that supposed to mean?

Half yelling, your world tilts a little and suddenly you're aware of the light buzz that seaking up on you.

You need some dick just ask.

Your eyes rolled skyward. His smart ass mouth getting to you more than you expected it too. You were getting ready to tell him exactly how far he could fuck off. But you froze, feeling Tojis eyes still on you like all he was waiting for was even the slightest indication that you were ready.

You don't know shit Toji.

You gonna leave your boyfriend hangin like that? He teases.

You follow his gaze to the guy across the way who was likely realizing your "friend" was stealing you away. Damnit! You didn't mean for that to happen like that.

Sorry, you mouth out with a shrug before turning your attention back to the dark haired man damn near breathing down your neck.

Everything happening was so irrational. You were imagining the taste the cheap beer on his breath. Normally the prickly ale scent would turn your stomach, but now you were about 30 seconds from letting him drag you off into one of these restrooms. Just to get a taste of it off his lips.

What's the matter? Can't decide on which it's not you it's me speeches to give him?

Fuck You! you blurted out fighting the smile coming to you lips.  You think you know every fucking thing, thats your fuckin problem.

His laugh rumbles in his chest. That smile too beautiful to accept coming from such an asshole.

He leans in, placing his hand under your bar stool and pulling it closer. A sly hand slips over your thigh, touching just under the hem of your dress. Please do. He teases, brushing his finger back and forth until your pulse staggered behind your ribs. Tell me how I'm wrong then, mamas.

First of all I ain't fuckin him. You breathed out when you fully intended on yelling it. You assumed wrong. That's not my man.

Yeah? He says with a darker look about his eye, causing a moment of prolonged eye contact. Ok. Guess I stand corrected then.

Guess you do! You agreed, the look you gave telling him everything your body already did.

You ready to go?

You scoff, playing off your immediate will to jump up and down screaming yes.

God you're such a fuckin creep. Does this usually work for you?

I think we're both about to find out.

I can't stand you. Is what you said but you were making your way toward the door with him.

Once you're out of the building his impatient lips descend upon you. Hungrily and breathlessly.

Why don't you get us an uber so we can go to your place. He says lining your collar bone with kisses.

You almost pulled your phone out. But for once you listened to that voice. Stick to the plan. He doesn't know where you live so keep it that way.

You push against his shoulders, you get the uber. And we're going to your place.

I'm banned from Uber he says moving his hips against yours causing you to wrap your legs around him.

God Toji you accidentally moan when he clutches your nipple between his teeth and follows the searing pain with his tongue. He carries you along, kissing and marking your neck and chest as you clung to him.

Fine. Your choice. We're not far anyway.

What does that mean?

His mouth is so good to you, and your overly sensitive body to really question anything. He kisses and nips, leaving you to barely notice the awkward empty hallway he sneaks you into.

Hold it. Let me get the key. He says setting you on your feet. Imagine your surprise when he goes for the padlock in the door.

The fuck is that. You say gasping for air as your eyes struggle to focus. The hell are we??

Toji, are we in a fucking storage unit??

You ask eyes still searching the place.

He cups your face, kissing your lips once again. Shut up. Once I'm fucking you it'll feel like the ritz baby.

He raises the sliding door and the loud ricochet makes you jump as you plucked your lips away from his.

Wait. There's no fucking way Im about to do this. Am I? That's what you said grinding against his palm the moment he shoved his hand between your legs, expertly nudging that answer towards a yes.

Every moment you stood there questioning how low you were setting your standards was a second too long for him. You got away from him and now he needed to show you exactly why you found your self ready to be slutted out in a fucking box.

As soon as your foot crossed into that tin square, he shut the gate behind you. He had a point to make. That much was evident in the way he shoved your skirt up over your ass and dragged your pussy into his face where he inhaled the scent of your arousal.

His nose tickles, making you giggle out loud.

Do that again. -shit makes me want to fuck you till you can't stand pretty slut.

his words registered as a million little tingles in your core. All of which needed to be sought after, one by one until everything wrong about this felt right.

He tears  the lacy thong from you waist. Slipping his fingers through the wetness, he drags a slick path between your folds. Making your soft moans rattle from your chest no matter how hard you tried to quiet them.

Mmmmhmm. I knew you missed me. He groans shoving his digits inside you.

Fuck y/n you're tight. When's the last time you fucked.

Your cheeks burned as you looked away, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing you hadn't been with anyone since him.

You'd be able to take me by now if you hadn't left me. He rasped out as if he wasn't damn near busting out of his pants at the chance to eat you six ways to Sunday.

He brings his tongue down gently against your clit at first. Giving soft intenttional flicks meant to test how sensitive you were. You writhed and twisted, shivering away from his tongue, making him force your trembling cunt back to his lips. Sssss-stop fucking runnin' in y/n, I need you dripping if I'm gonna fit Mamas.

You did more than just drip. You came down in torrents. You were elated, manipulated by satisfaction blooming in those those impossibly emerld eyes. His fingers working madly against the tight wet womb seizing up around them.

Tears pricked the corners of your eyes. It was so much robbing you of your sanity, so many sensations overwhelming you. The slurp. The smacks.  His middle and index fingers pulsing in and out. His tongue tending to that aching clit. A pleasurable heat swelling and releasing, over and over again.

Every climax up until now has sent so much satisfaction through you that every muscle in your body is wrought with exhaustion. But he doesn't care that you can't move.

He lays you on the cot in the corner. Making you side eye him a moment before. Damn. This was the the most outlandish shit you'd ever done. But shit. Toji looked so fucking good it hurt. His shirt comes over his head and those jeans come off.

He gives himself a few preparory strokes before smacking that heavy cock head against your clit, laughing as you jolted again and again and cried out for him to finally fuck you.

He arches, guiding himself inside, your swollen cunt pulsing and pulling him in. The slow descent into your gummy wet entrance warrants him the chance to really get to see the way he spreads you.

When he finally bottoms out, youre lustful mewls are echoing out through the hollow metal walls, putting a certain emphasis on the sound of his name erupting from your lips.

Sssss fuck mamas. He stills, tucked deep inside you, his dick jumping at the sound of your voice.

You can't keep this pussy away from me baby. His hips rock steady, fucking you into the sorry excuse for a mattress, loving the way he can fuck you plain stupid. Fuck, I could break you right now y/n.

You were always the prettiest little slut when you took this dick. Baby. Look at you. Why would you ever take this pussy from me Y/n?

The harsh slaps to your tits drags you back into your body. He ruts into you, teasing your clit back and forth, breaking you all over again until you were dripping once more, this time around his cock as he slowed the rock of his hips.

cmere he says flipping you onto your stomach and dragging your hips back. He pushes your shoulders to the bed, and slips his finger around and around the messy display before him.

Sssssss You'll take me back won't you?

Shit. You're ready to say it. But you bite bike your moans. No no no. Do NOT take him back.

Answer me mamas. He grunts out, prodding your puffy wet clit with kisses from his dick.

Let me hear you say it. He taunts, pushing in, pulling out. Pushing in, pulling out.

Fuck you growled fighting tooth and nail not to give in. But fuck, everytime he pushed in, you gushed, every time he pulled out you cried, desperately clenching around nothing.

Fuck Toji. Fuck me please.

His hand burns at the back of your neck. A second later your braids/wig/locks/curls are tangled up with his fingers when he palms the back of your head like a Spalding and snatches your body back against him, leaving nothing between you. Nothing to stop him from making you his all over again.

Tell me I can come back. I can make it all up to you. Baby?

He kisses around your ear, his hand cutting off your air supply just enough to make your head spin outta control from the mind numbing climax creeping up on you. You heard me mamas? I'll do it right now. He brags, hitting your spot.

You hated that it felt different, like your pussy was trying to get used to him all over again. Like you were ready to fall for him and all his bullshit. Consequences be damned. It hurt so good that you cried down your thigh, shaking and whining in perfect pain and pleasure.

Fuck Toji. I swear- nngh I hate your ass so bad.

Na nah nah darling. You don't get it do that. Not when this pussy is gripping my dick the way it is.

His fingers clench handfuls of your flesh and he drags his hips back and forth, every pump shallow but intense. Nudging and nudging and nudging until you were on edge again. 

Fuck he was right. You loved it. You wanted this. You needed this.

You'll always be my pretty lil slut? won't you? I've ruined you, and you like it. Let me hear dat shit mama, say it!!

I- I'm ruined. I'm no fucking good. I'm just your slut Toji, please. Ugh.

I can move all my shit back in?

Yes!

Toji was feral. Using his strength to prop you up and keep fucking you. He could still taste you on his tongue and you were coming so hard he couldn't pull out if he tried.

Shit! You must want me to come in you, don't you mamas?

Yesss. I want your cum. Cum in me please. You cry out as he pinches and tugs at your nipples, his tongue ghosting your ear.

He bucks faster. That's what the fuck I thought.

Your skin claps against his, ensuring anyone in the building most definitely could hear him beating down your slutty walls.

Tell that curly headed JT looking fuck I'll kill him if he calls you again.

Mhhmm. Yes Toji, yess. He could ask you anything right now and the answer would always be yes.

Whoahh! He sputters spurting his release against your swollen cervix. Satisfied, he pulls out leaving you empty and aching. Just a dumb fucked out bimbo with her ass out as he gleamed at the lewd display.

He slips his thumb over your clit, catching the bit that leakes out of you. Ah ah, don't waste any, he says shoving it back inside. Let's go. You gotta eat at least 3 plan bs for how much you just sucked outta me.

Ok you manage to whimper, lying flat, wincing as your walls contracted and the pain set in.

You lie there spent, officially dicked stupid.

Hey mamas, lemme ask you something.

What Toji?

Can I hook my ps5 up to the big tv?

Listen. I know he didn't fuck us in a box per a literal sense but hey. This was fun. What do you think?

[whatthefishh]

until we bleed

Rydal Keener x F!Reader ; part of the Oxford Comma series

Words: 6.4k

Warnings: swearing, an unnecessary amount of big words being used, smut, pinv, um... slight dub con... drama...

Beta read by the lovely @xbellaxcarolinax who basically jumped on the doc every time I helplessly texted her to ask if I was being stupid, and special s/o to @melodygatesauthor for helping me talk out the smut hehe

The charity gala was a front for the girls to get dressed up and the men to boast about their new business ventures. The charity mentioned in the invitation was picked out by the dean’s wife, a hedge fund manager – a most noble career – and she had already swindled enough out of the guests for the entrance fee before the scheduled auction later that evening. 

You didn’t want to go but you couldn’t really tell Rydal that, especially after the whole thing with Chester just last week. He had been a little down since then, his skin halfway healed from where the skin had broken. You couldn’t help but feel a current of electricity pass through you straight to your core whenever you looked at the slightly swollen pout he was sporting because of it. And the bastard knew it, too. He had been using the pout, with the added weight of his baby cow eyes, to get his way for the past few days, easily swaying you into submission for the littlest things. 

Which is how you ended up at the pretentious gathering being thrown in some philanthropic attempt to absolve the attendees of their greed. The dress you got for this event specifically was more expensive than any you’d ever worn before, the black satin silk of it tickling your calves where it hit. Your heels were new and not broken in, the thin straps sitting across your fresh pedicure — also something he insisted on paying for, picking out your nail colour for you. A glossy soft pink, a shade that reminded you of the Chanel perfume he had gifted you with. 

Rydal had taken you out to buy an outfit when you tried to tell him you couldn’t go with him to the gala because you had nothing to wear, rolling his eyes at what he knew was you trying to weasel your way out of it. You felt bad, making him wait while you tried on every dress the saleslady threw at you. He kept telling you it was fine, eventually threatening to come in there and dress you himself if you didn’t cut it out and that he was comfortable lounging on the sofas outside the fitting rooms. 

Slipping on the next dress from the large selection you had gathered in your fitting room, you checked yourself out in the mirror. Flatting the skirt with your palms, you tried to imagine yourself at the party, your arm looped around Rydal’s elbow and everyone’s eyes on you. Would this help you blend in? Was this the golden ticket you needed to finally gain acceptance? You’re starting to feel like it didn’t matter what you wore, they’d be able to sniff you out regardless, the vultures with their sharp manicures and syringe sculpted faces. 

When you finally stepped out in the simple but flattering black dress, Rydal’s eyes flashed as you turned this way and that in the mirror, trying to see it from all angles. This could work, it was simple enough that you didn’t feel entirely unlike yourself but it was still a lot more extravagant than anything you owned.  

You didn’t notice him slowly getting up like a predator stalking its prey, too focused on whether you liked the garment or not until his hands came to rest on your hips and his nose pressed itself against your neck. Only then did you take note of his half hard bulge pressing into your bum, your body temperature jumping at how quickly he was reacting to you all dressed up for him. You weren’t a lingerie girl, never had to be in your experiences but the way he was growing more and more feral by the second had you itching to buy the most delicate, laciest sets just to pull this behaviour from him on demand. 

“D-Do you like it?” you hated the way your voice wavered when you spoke, the slight increase in pressure from his hot hands causing you to blush heavily. 

“Are you fucking kidding me? Go take it off before I do it for you–”

“Yeah, on it,” you pushed his hands away, bolting towards the fitting room before he got any ideas and shaking your head at him. 

He purchased the dress while you were changing back into your regular clothes, coming out to the sight of him holding the garment bag over his arm while dumbly ignoring the stares of the other girls in the store. 

You weren’t used to feeling so aggressively desired so publicly but Rydal never made you feel like he wanted to hide how he felt about you. He would compliment you in front of his friends, in front of strangers, he would speak highly of you despite having told you something that would send your blood boiling seconds prior. It was reassuring, especially since you weren’t blind to the way girls would look at him, especially the ones in his social circles. 

The dress would help you fit into the crowd a little better, the shoes only slightly uncomfortable so far but that wasn’t the part that bothered you. Before leaving for the night, you made sure to try your best with your hair and makeup to look effortless with the help of your roommate, Eleanor, who told you that Rydal was going to go crazy over your look. That didn’t make you feel any more comfortable, however, wearing clothes much too expensive, you began to wonder if he liked you better like this, if he wanted you to be more like them. 

His reaction upon seeing you made your stomach swoop, the reverence in his eyes making you shyer than you’ve felt in a long time. You think maybe you should dress up like this more often, maybe he’d prefer you like this. Trying to shake those thoughts out of your head, the two of you make your way to the party being held on campus, looping your arm through his. Rydal was wearing a beige linen suit himself, the white dress shirt underneath had the first couple buttons open for a more relaxed look that you knew he only did to stick it to his dad.

You don’t know if you would have preferred to be invisible rather than be gawked at by the guests, but either way you were extremely uncomfortable and trying your best to mask it for the sake of your boyfriend. The party itself was unlike any other you’d attended, and why would you have? It wasn’t something you’d normally be invited to, especially with your financial struggles. It was kind of ironic, you being here now. At least you were dressed for the part.

Most of the guests were in casually lavish clothing themselves, almost everyone in the room exuded an air of superiority and arrogance you didn’t know how to handle. Walking by a group of older men dressed in various shades of browns and beiges, you overheard their heated discussion regarding the new instalment of fine art in the library’s entryway. There was a table full of what looked like raffle prizes to be won, along with a small brass raffle drum at the end. Near the end of the room stood a podium next to a sign with the charity of the night outlined in large, black lettering. For the good press, for the photos, you bitterly think. There was even a small group of classical instrument musicians playing classical renditions of modern day music. 

In every cluster of guests, there was an undeniable condescending overtone, the haughtiness oozing from every direction and you didn’t know where a safe space was for your eyes to land so as not to be assaulted by a judgemental gaze. Rydal was walking with ease, his hand at the small of your back, the warmth from it burning your skin due to the backless nature of the dress but you were thankful for the touch as it kept you somewhat grounded, helping you not trip over your heels. 

He walked you through the psychological battleground, gliding through the people who were most definitely whispering about his date for the evening, leading you to the food and drinks table. Exotic delicacies littered the banquet table, carefully prepared for consumption and small enough to grab several handfuls before feeling any sense of satiation. The rich were an interesting breed, despite their indulgence they loved making things tiny. 

The purpose of the night was drowning in the show of snobbery, and you were so bitter inside at the show they put on for each other that you opted to stay quiet so as not to make Rydal uncomfortable. These were his peers, the people he grew up with, the old man in the corner, his godfather, the lady with the laughable plastic surgery was his favourite ‘aunt’ growing up, giving him the biggest presents at his birthdays. Countless familiar faces for him, all of them sneering at you. 

The comforting touch of his hand leaves your back and you immediately turn to him in a near panic, the idea of being left alone in the sea of sharks making you stumble over your shoes. Upon seeing Rydal’s father right behind you, you opted to stay silent. This was not the first time you were meeting him, but it was the first time you were seeing him on school grounds after spending the summer at their family home. 

“Rydal,” he nodded to you and greeted you by name, “Come, I need you to meet a couple of people from that firm I was telling you about. Quickly now.” 

Lawrence Keener wasn’t the most terrifying person you’d ever met but he was definitely intimidating and he definitely was aware of it. The man had influence at the school, and honestly anywhere else he went. His handsome face and strong jaw demanded respect before his clothes did, his bespoke and cleanly pressed suit giving him a reason to tilt his chin just that smidge higher so he could look down at you with a single snobby brow raised. You could see where Rydal learned that expression from. 

He was somewhat dismissive of your presence, which only served to piss you off further but you had to hold back from rolling your eyes since Rydal was looking at you with a plea in his eyes, asking if it was okay to leave you for a few minutes to go meet the senior partners his father was pushing him towards. 

You nodded with a tight smile to him, trying to be supportive without showing how anxious you already were on the inside. Stepping into his world and pretending you were fine with it was proving to be more difficult than you initially thought.

Rydal leaves you with a relatively chaste kiss on the cheek, his father watching you two with blatant boredom before ushering him away with a hand on the back of his neck. After watching them turn a corner, you have to blink a few times before gathering your bearings and heading straight for the hors d'oeuvres, the miniature yet intricate selection taking your attention away from the prickly company. Devilled eggs, stuffed mushrooms with crispy onions on top, micro fig pies, melted brie and shortbread, roasted oysters with butter mignonette, caviar and creme tartlets and bowls and bowls of shrimp cocktail met your eyes. Reaching to try a pie, it almost made you laugh at how tiny it was in the palm of your hand. 

Some time must have passed and you’d eaten several different kinds of mini appetisers, gulping down the mocktail a random floating waiter had offered you after watching you stuff your face while you observed others mingling and networking. Hearing Rydal’s voice over the soft music playing, your eyes start searching for him excitedly. 

There’s a girl. Walking next to him, there is a very pretty girl. And they’re laughing. She’s touching his arm – familiar, they’re familiar – and he doesn’t brush it off, he’s smiling with her and for a moment you forget that you’re together. 

They look… they look quite perfect together, to be honest. She’s taller than you, blonde hair perfectly coiffed with a classic cocktail dress in a shade of blue that matched her eyes, making her smile look all the more bright. The girl in question throws her head back in laughter at something Rydal says, and it must have been funny at the way she covers her mouth elegantly to hide her grin and–and you want to leave. Badly. He’s not flirting but he’s also not taking her hand off of his arm, and he’s still smiling at her. 

They…fit. She looks like she belongs. Here, with him, on his arm, wherever she pleases really. Maybe she’s the girl his father wanted him to go for, the choice that made sense for him. The option that was easier. The kind of girl who crossed her ankles when she sat at the dinner table, the one who knew which one the soup spoon was. The girl with the right parents, the right upbringing. The one who didn’t need a room at their family home because she had her own next door. The one he didn’t have to take shopping to make her look the part at a charity gala. 

The girl that wasn’t a charity case. 

You should just leave now, and leave them to it. They would probably be engaged right after graduation. Rydal would get a job with the law firm his father was pressuring him about and she would be the host of their next charity event. Hell, maybe she’d even run for a council position. Talk about a power couple. 

While your intrusive thoughts were spiralling, you get caught staring by Rydal, his eyes lighting up to see you and you can see the words forming on his lips as he’s about to call out for you, most likely to introduce you to the girl in question. Turning on your heel before he had the chance to get your name out, you walk with speed and purpose, hunting for the washroom to collect yourself. You know people are looking at you walking past them, you probably look a little out of it but you couldn’t care less right now, just focused on getting some air and maybe splashing some water on your face.

Ducking into the washroom with a sigh of relief – the door matched the wood tone of the walls, the little sign above labelled “Washroom” in tiny, cursive writing making it incredibly difficult to find – you manage to find an empty stall. Leaning your head back against the stall door, you close your eyes as you try to even your breathing. You have to manage the anxiety bubbling up in your chest and the influx of negative thoughts about Rydal, it’s not fair to you or him.

The washroom door swings open and shuts, a pocket of music from the main hall echoing for a few seconds before giving way to the animated chatter of the girls who just entered. Their giggles and whispers became more clear once they settled in front of the large mirror hanging above the marble sinks. 

“I’m going to need a lot more champagne to withstand anymore of that woman’s inane chatter, like, we’re already helping so much,” one girl huffed. 

Peeking your eyes through the tiny gap in the door, you catch a glimpse of the back of their heads. 

“Yeah well at least your boyfriend hasn’t been ignoring you all night. All I said was that he was repeating his outfit and that people would notice!” 

“Oh honey, don’t worry. Nobody is going to notice that with Rydal walking around with his charity case girlfriend. What the fuck does he see in her anyway?” Another girl said, carelessly loud. 

Your ears perked up again, your heart dropping in your stomach. Now was not the best time for you to hear this, their conversation only confirming your shameful thoughts about your boyfriend. 

“I always thought he was easy but to stoop so low? She’s basically the farmer’s daughter!” 

The scandal in her voice almost made you laugh in disbelief from where you were hiding in the stall. 

“I think he’s doing it just to get back at his father. Lawrence doesn’t even look at her.” 

Well. That’s not… that’s not what you wanted to hear. Lawrence looked at you, right? He said hello perfectly politely, right? You’re frowning at the thought.

“Ha! That’s because he wanted Colette for him. My mom told me he’s secretly hoping Rydal wakes up one morning, ready to go running back to Barbie Blue Eyes and make them all proud parents,” the loud one from earlier said with a wicked tone. 

Colette… you didn’t know a Colette. Blue eyes? Could they be speaking about The Girl from earlier? Were they right, were you just a phase for him? 

“Oh my god El, you kill me! They are really blue, and that dress she’s wearing tonight looks so fucking good on her, I can’t deny her that. It’s like she got it custom made to match her eyes.” 

Oh fuck. The Girl was Colette. Of fucking course. 

And from the sounds of it, she was Rydal’s ex. No wonder he never mentioned her. No wonder she was so friendly with him, hands all over his arms, giggling together like a couple of young lovers. Compared to her, she was the obvious choice, and it wasn’t a surprise that Lawrence had given his approval. 

“Sounds like Colette,” the third girl chimed in. 

“I don’t care how much Rydal spends on this new girl, she isn’t fooling anybody. I bet she’ll be gone by the winter. Anyways,” the first girl sighs tiredly, as if unloading all that gossip took a physical toll on her. “How’s my lipstick, Vee?” 

They descended into a different topic, focused on adjusting each other’s appearance until they left the washroom leaving you to stew in silence. They wouldn’t have known you were listening but they said everything you didn’t need to hear anyway. 

So Rydal was dating this perfect girl, Colette, before you got together. You were the rebound. You were never permanent. You didn’t belong. 

You should’ve known he wasn’t serious, it was too good to be true. You should never have opened up to him, never have trusted him with all your insecurities and vulnerabilities. He probably bought all the girls Chanel. He couldn’t have been serious about you. He hasn’t even met your mom, hasn’t visited your home yet. You couldn’t let him get any closer. 

Stepping out and gently splashing your cheeks with some cold water, you walk out the doors on shaky knees and look around. Nobody is paying you any attention now and you exhale a breath of relief. These people are never going to respect you. No matter how many pretty clothes he buys you. 

Rydal finds you before your eyes find him, his hand snaking around your waist and mouth finding your ear to whisper a sweet little I missed you, softly kissing your skin. You shiver, and despite the direction your thoughts were going you find comfort in his smell and warmth, closing your eyes while you turn your body into his. 

He’s the same and yet he isn’t. Rydal slips into his social persona and you’ve never really paid attention before but there’s a slight difference to his voice and once you notice it, it bothers you. You stare at him, perplexed and hurt. You wonder if you know him properly at all. Which one is the real one? Is he pretending with you or with them? 

Rydal tells you he has someone to introduce you to but your stomach starts churning and you think you’re gonna be sick because you see Colette making her way towards you in the crowd and you can’t face her, not after what you just heard. 

“I feel kind of sick, actually, can we go? Like, now?” 

You know you have a frantic edge to your voice but you can’t help it. 

“Can we go in a bit? Just stick it out for a little longer, baby—“ 

There’s a bubble of anxiety in your chest that rises to your throat the closer she gets and you look to Rydal with pure panic, upset that he’d even suggest you stay in this stifling room for any longer. He stops talking upon noticing the tears welling in your eyes, brows immediately furrowing in concern and then nodding quickly.

“Okay, yeah. Yeah, we can go, c’mon.” 

His hand returns to the small of your back, guiding you out of the hall and you’re glad for it because all of a sudden your vision is blurry and if it weren’t for his persistent hands helping you, you would’ve surely never found your way out. 

The way back to his room was tense. Not the comfortable silence you were used to, your throat closed and sealed shut since leaving. Your mouth has opened and shut several times, wanting to break the silence but your tongue felt like lead. 

Rydal doesn’t make any attempt at conversation either. After putting his blazer jacket around your shoulders, he stuck his hands in his pocket and frowned the whole walk back. 

By the time he let you in his room, your bottom lip was wobbling and your anxiety was suffocating you in its attempt for release. Either you were going to cry or yell or both. 

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, you reach for the makeup wipes you keep with his things, aggressively wiping at your eyes and fighting with the layers of mascara you had put on. He slowly comes up behind you, not looking into your eyes but his hands reach to unclasp your necklace, brushing your hair aside for ease of access. 

You inhale a shuddering breath. 

You should just do it now. Just come right out and say it. You may as well cut your losses and let him be happy with whoever he wants, let him make his father happy and stop standing in his way. You were only holding him back, and that’s not what you wanted to do. You still loved him, even if tonight did break your heart. 

Dropping the necklace on the counter, he reaches for the zipper of your dress next but his hands still and instead rest on your waist as he presses his forehead into your shoulder. 

“Did something happen? Did someone… say something?” He mumbled, the vibrations of his voice almost triggering your tears. Instead you let out a sniffle.

“She really is beautiful. Why didn’t you tell me about her?” 

“Who?” 

“Why did I have to find out about her from a bunch of girls in the washroom? Does she go here? Is that why your dad doesn’t look me in the eye when he talks to me?”

“…it’s not like that—“ he sighs.

“No? It’s not like you become someone else when we’re around these people? It’s not like you have this whole goddamn life that I’m not part of, that I’ll never be part of because they’re never going to accept me? They’re never going to respect me, never think I’m good enough?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, I don’t even know what you heard!”

“Everyone thinks I’m with you just for your money, you know. They called me the farmer's daughter. They said I’m your fucking charity case. Do you know how that makes me feel? As if I don’t already feel like an outsider here?”

He opens his mouth to respond but you don't let him, rushing to hurt him the way you’re hurting inside. 

“You’ve never had to work a day in your life, you don’t know what it’s like in my shoes.” You laugh humorlessly. “What are we doing, Rydal?” 

“What do you mean?” His voice sounds so small and the knife just twists deeper in your gut. 

“Why should I have to deal with this constant bullshit from the people in your life? I don’t even know them! Maybe… maybe we should—“

“Stop, stop, listen I can handle everyone else being upset with me, but not you. Not you, please. I can’t take it from you, please don’t say what I think you’re going—“ 

“I don’t know. I just can’t, I— maybe, maybe we should break up, I think you’d feel better, too, I think—“

“How could you think that? How could you say that?” He’s upset, expression sour and twisted.

He looks the way you feel. 

You watch him fumble for words. 

“I literally left my dad at this stupid party and he’s going to be fucking pissed, like seriously livid because he was building me up to his buddies but– but I don’t care because I wanted to make sure you were okay!”

His palms grip your waist tighter and he steps closer, crowding you against the basin and doesn’t give you any room to move. You can’t look at him so instead you stare at the makeup wipe, the angry black marks mirroring your heart as your mind yells at you to run, to leave and hide where he can’t hurt you, where he can’t see you crumble and break after he inevitably agrees to leave you. 

You push it once more.

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have. Maybe I should’ve just left you there.” 

There’s a small part of your brain that tells you that you’re being irrational. That he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t care, he must care even a tiny amount, even if you were a temporary toy. 

His hands leave you for a second and he takes a step away. You feel cold, immediately feeling small and stupid, fighting between wanting to cry and going numb until suddenly the familiar warmth comes back, his hand pushing your back with so much force that your hands shoot out in front of you to catch yourself. One on the mirror, one on around the edge of the vanity. 

Looking up at Rydal in shock, you open your mouth to ask him what the fuck his problem is until you see he’s not even looking at you, his eyes are trained on your ass and he’s biting his lip, but he still looks… broken. 

“Rydal, what the fu—“

“Stop. Talking. You’ve said enough.” His voice was almost a whisper but still firm enough to cut through yours, and his hands were still kneading your hips. 

His behaviour is new and kind of confusing, if you’re being honest. It’s clear he’s never been denied before in his life. He looks helpless and angry and worried and aggravated and entirely too focused on your body at this moment for any of it to make sense. 

Rydal’s fingers trail down your dress until they reach the slit in the back and leave goosebumps as they make their way back up, hooking into your panties and then tugging them off and around your heels. Upon rising, he’s still avoiding eye contact. Your cheeks are burning, legs slightly wider than before. Despite being mad at him, your body still obeys. 

“So mouthy all the time.”

Balling up your panties, he surprises you further by shoving them in your mouth even as you protest and try to push back on him but his body keeps your balance wavering. You have no choice but to keep your hands where they were if you didn’t want to fall. 

Your eyes must be bugging out of your sockets and the rise and fall of your chest is coming quicker and quicker.

“If that’s what you really want, then leave.” He’s saying this while the tips of his thick fingers brush and tease your entrance, keeping you frozen in place.

Your mind was at odds with your body as you felt your instinctive reaction to him touching you. Fighting the urge to embrace the desire now dripping down your thighs, you knew you had the ability to walk away if you wanted to and yet you found yourself pressing back against his hand wanting more. 

“Aren’t you gonna leave? Isn’t that what you wanted? No?” 

Rydal slides two fingers inside your cunt, easily and without warning and you grunt but it’s muffled against the cloth. This is absurd, you think dumbly. You want to feel embarrassed but you can’t bring yourself to.

“Didn’t think so, baby,” he’s saying while stepping closer and his fingers reach even deeper, if that were possible.

His mouth comes up to your ear, whispering his next words and sending them straight to your gut, weighing heavily inside you. 

“I need you, can’t you see that? Look at me,” his hot breath hits the shell of your ear and you’re panting. “Can’t you tell? How fucking badly I need you?” 

So you look at him, and you see a desperate and needy man in the place of your Rydal, the one you’re familiar with. This wasn’t the same man you were used to, the one who would make you laugh while he was making his way inside you. This Rydal was upset and he was adamant on making you regret your words. 

His fingers were curling inside your wet heat, pressing up against that spot that made you see stars and stealing your breath so hard your fingers were curling. Your fingerprints were marking the mirror, the squeaking sound making you shudder against his body. Moaning around the fabric still in your mouth, you tried to grind down on his hand, desperate for him to move, to do something, anything to the tension in your body coiling tighter and tighter. 

Rydal could feel your hips moving back against his hand and moved to still you, fingers holding you tight enough to bruise. Slipping his fingers out, he taps them against your clit before removing his hand entirely and making your shoulders sag at the loss.

Reaching one hand up and back to keep him close, afraid of his warmth leaving you, your hand wraps around his neck as he rushes to unbuckle his pants noisily. He’s shaking a little, breaths coming out ragged at how badly he needs to fill you up. 

Once he frees himself, Rydal uses one hand to push you back down and bunch your pretty dress up, lining himself up with your entrance and pushing in swiftly without hesitation. 

He groans loudly, tilting his head back with his eyes shut for a moment before looking down at where he’s seated to the hilt inside you, unmoving. 

“You lookin’? You need me, too, I can see it in your eyes. Look,” he reaches forward to grab at your jaw, making you watch yourself as he slowly pulls his cock out and slams it back inside to kiss your cervix. Again, and again, and again. “See that?”

Rydal forces your head to nod with his hand still holding your face while you try to speak, voice coming out unclear against the panties still in your mouth. The stupid fucking fabric was making it hard to breathe and you were going to pass out, drunk on his cock, you were going to faint against the god damn builder’s grade medicine cabinet. You want to moan out loud, you want to tell him he wasn’t playing fair, that he was going too slow. You want to pull his beautiful hair out and yell at him, you want him to hurry up and fuck you harder, you—

You’re coming. 

“Ohhh, fuuuuck,” he let go of your face, hands dropping to press on your lower back and push you more forward, your hands clambering on the mirror like a fool. “Look so—so, oh fuck, baby, look at you.”

It didn’t take him long at all to make a mess of you. 

“You gonna take it back? Take back what you said, tell me you were wrong,” he whines, still fucking you hard but not hard enough. 

The problem was that he was dragging his girth out slowly but stealing your breath on every hard thrust forward. And it still wasn’t enough, not for this, not for right now. 

Your attempt at speaking is ruined by the fact that your panties were still in your mouth, your saliva soaking the material by this point. You wanted to spit it out, hurl the obstructive garment across the room but it wasn’t possible in your current position. He can’t possibly be stupid enough to expect you to answer him like this. 

He almost laughs when he realises you’re trying to say something, quickly pulling the fabric from your mouth to let you finally have your voice back and you immediately let out a cry at his perfectly timed thrust. His cock was moving faster, intent on not having you speak but making you come again. Now that he could hear you, he was becoming more and more unhinged. 

Embarrassingly, you’re having a hard time keeping your voice down, whines and cries falling from your lips continuously while Rydal fucked you against his sink. Your hands are leaving fingerprints all over his mirror from where you’re trying to get a grip and push yourself back on him, his own hands keeping you bent over for him but squeezing whatever flesh he could reach. 

Leaning forward to kiss your back, he mumbles words he thinks you don’t hear, don’t leave me, mine, my baby, stay here—

“S’wrong, I-I was wrong,” you whimper. “M’sorry, fuck—“

“Shhh—“

“I—“ you hiccup. “I hate them, I, yesss right there, god—“

“I know, baby, I know, I got you,” he’s back to grunting in your ear and you can’t see or feel anything that isn’t Rydal. 

You’re overwhelmed by everything that’s happened tonight, your feelings from earlier still bubbling up and causing you to tear up while he continues to ram into you. He sees you crying, reaching his hand in front of you to toy with your clit.

“Stay with me,” he demands, voice low against the shell of your ear. Desperate, he’s still so fucking needy even after making you cry on his cock. 

You nod before you realise you’re nodding, sniffling in your daze. 

Rydal’s index finger, the same one he teased you with earlier, starts circling your clit in the surefire way he knows how to make you cum, grunting when he feels your walls fluttering over his length. 

And when you’re gushing all over him, his finger still circles your nub but he stills his hips as he feels you come undone and talks you through it. Pretty baby, love you so fucking much, stay, stay with me, stay—

Lifting you off his length he takes off your dress completely and turns you around with his hand wrapped around your neck to bring his mouth to yours, kissing you like a man possessed. He doesn’t wait to slip his tongue into your mouth, claiming it as his own to prove a point. He’s always fucking proving a point, always pushing his way through your walls. 

Walking you backwards towards his bed, he only breaks away from your mouth to help you remove his shirt and pants, your hands mapping out his chest and shoulders. You don’t let him get far from you even as you lower yourself to lay back on the mattress, pulling his body along needily while he crawls over you. 

This time when he enters you, it’s slower, softer, gentle, but you’re shaking in his arms, foreheads touching as you share a breath and syrupy kisses. You cry a little, mascara messy and lipstick smudged, but he shushes you, mocking you, “thought you could leave me,” he says and anticipating your rebuttal — as he does, he always fucking does — he says, “thought you could go on without my cock, hmm?”

And then he’s kissing you again before you can say anything, effectively shutting you up while pressing you into the mattress, fucking the fight out of you as his hips slide into yours again and again. Your bodies are sweat ridden, your pussy is soaking his sheets and he still hasn’t cum yet, but you think he’s close. He has to be, he’s barely pulling out now, his length throbbing inside your pulsing walls as he ruts into you. 

He’s biting your shoulder and your eyes are focused on the popcorn ceiling, your oversensitive core trembling as he tries to pull another orgasm from you. You’re probably crying, it’s hard to tell at this point, face and body damp, but your ears are attuned to his sounds, his gorgeous whimpers and grunts. Rydal’s body is heavy on yours but you’re floating, you don’t feel a thing until his thumb starts pressing hard against your clit that you try to curl in on yourself, thrashing against him and– yeah, you’re crying. 

He’s speaking absolute filth, it doesn’t make any sense, but in the midst of your pleasure you hear him saying he’s going to fill you up. 

He does. It’s so wet between your legs, the glide of his half aborted thrusts smacking lewdly and loudly and you feel like an exposed nerve and numb all at once. His spend is leaking out of you and just when you expect him to pull out and play with your puffy folds, he turns on his side, keeping you full of him. Rydal rests his face against your chest, your sweaty and spent bodies tangled together. Boneless and breathless. 

His arms are everywhere, one running down the length of your thigh soothingly and the other wrapped under your torso to pull you close by your waist. Touching, always touching. That’s been one constant you’ve noticed from the start. Your breaths are echoing loudly and you’re almost afraid to speak, afraid to ruin the tranquil silence that envelops you both. 

You open your eyes to find him already watching you. 

“I’m hopeless without you,” he says, so so softly. “I’ll let you win at monopoly every time, I’ll stop ruining the ending of the books you’re reading, fuck, just tell me what I have to do. Tell me, I’ll do it.”

You just hold him tighter to you, kissing his temple.

[writingsbychlo]

How did I literally just find you????? Why have I been missing out??? Why did no one tell me?? I basically binge read all of your acotar work in the last week and each one filled me with so many emotions I cannot express. I think the one that hit me the hardest was How To Save A Life. Something about Rhys getting the TLC he needed while under the mountain made me so soft 💔 I saw some people asked about a part 2, but even if you don’t write a full fic (not that you have to write anything at all) I was just wondering if you have any blurbs or headcanons about how you imagined it would go if the story continued after coming out from utm? I read it romantically but bff!rhys would also be so so cute

Side note: sin Sunday was just… 🥵🥵

BFF!RHYS IS SO SO SO CUTE!!

he would take such good care of her, taking her back to his home with the IC and introducing them, and getting all embarrassed about himself everytime he showers her with what he considers normal and she considers a wild show of wealth.

"rhys, what the fuck is that?"

"a horse."

"why is it here?"

"I bought it for you!"

"you can't just—"

or

"rhys. stop it."

"I'm not doing anything."

"I can see you itching to throw money at the problem."

"ITS JUST THAT I COULD FIX IT SO MUCH BETTER WITH MONEY."

and

"how much did that dress cost?"

"I'm not telling you."

"ballpark it."

"more than your current rent, less than the house I wanted to buy you.

"oh my gods."

[celerydays]

could you walk us through what notebooks & journals & pens /etc you use - they look so good!

I would be SO happy to, you have no idea!!

Alright, let's fucking GOOOO~

Starting off with my current "workhorse" pens - I have like *checks notes* 36 fountain pens and a bit too many inked up atm, but these are just the ones I'm currently reaching for or have inked up more often than not:

TWSBI Go (F): Kinda ugly! But also kinda cute! It's cheap and works great (I friggin love TWSBI pens tbh) and it has a little hole on the cap where you can attach a lanyard or charms, like I did! Makes it cuter imo and it's kind of my emotional support pen these days.

Opus88 Pocket (EF): This 2022 edition has a little Moon tarot design on the cap so it's pretty much the pen I use exclusively for my witchy/tarot practice journals! A lil bummed the cap doesn't post, especially since its a shorter pocket-sized pen, but not a deal breaker and I still love it.

Pilot Custom 823 (F): My grail pen that I've literally coveted for years and just recently acquired at the DC Pen Show this weekend! It's only been a day but I think it could potentially become my favorite pen. Ever.

Pilot Prera (CM): This is my third Prera lol. I just think they're great and really underrated pens! Also a recent acquisition from the DC Pen Show and this cursive M nib is suuuuper fun to write with.

Pilot Vanishing Point (EF): My favorite pen for planning! Super fine-tipped for writing task lists and schedules and love that it's so convenient/quick-draw with the click mechanism.

(I'm totally a Pilot pen ho, can you tell? asdjflaglsg)

Journals/Planners/Notebooks under cut–

Sterling Ink B6 Common Planner: For a good chunk of this year, I was in this planner because I honestly love the size and all the layouts. Super practical and flexible as a system. 10/10 would go back. I've used it to plan, as a reading journal, as a tarot log...

But I get the itch to move around so it's been sitting a little unused since like June, oop.

Leuchtturm A6: I started craving something tiny and minimal so I've been bullet journaling in this pocket notebook for the last month or two and I'm really enjoying it!

Standard-sized Tomoe River Paper notebook: This is pretty consistent in that I don't change up the system itself, but I'm in and out of it for memory keeping/scrapbook journaling! It's almost always a Tomoe River paper notebook of SOME kind that I usually buy in A5 size to go to FedEx and get it cut down to standard. Though I'm thinking of getting a blank Midori MD A5 to have cut down next time - I've been liking the freedom of blank pages for journaling instead of anything lined or gridded.

I really need to catch up with it tbh, but I love sitting in an explosion of printed photos, stickers, and washi and going ham with the pages.

(I do have a flip through of my January-March 2022 pages on YouTube)

Midori MD Cotton B6 Slim: I also have this sketchbook that sorta turned into a visual sketch diary of sorts. I fell off a while ago but want to get back into it because it's super fun to work in and to look back on!

Wide-sized Cosmo Air Light notebook & A5 Filofax Malden: These are my tarot/witchy journals. Grimoires I guess? One is for journaling and all my messier notes while the other is more for reference and ease of organization.

A5 Leuchtturm: I didn't know if I should include this guy, but I've been writing it in a lot recently so I guess I will lol. This is like truuuly a miscellaneous™ notebook.

I got this A5 notebook back in 2017 to use as my very first bullet journal, then found out that this size is personally waaaay too big for me to use as a bullet journal so I hopped off of it pretty quick. It now sits on my desk because since it's mostly blank I'll just pick it up to use it to write literally A N Y T H I N G.

Most recently, I wrote like 5 pages in one night on notes for a fanfiction piece I was working on (I'm not a writer, this fic is never gonna see the light of day by anyone but me lololol. Hyperfixation is so wild; I've put 80k+ words within just 10 days into it so far and it's been hella therapeutic.)

That's all, I think!?

It's funny because I actually have a NEW notebook arriving tomorrow that I'm going to try out as a bujo/commonplace/omni journal of sorts?? I might write an update post after I've set that up and see how I like it <3