#and equally enthused | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sonotpattismith · 4 months ago

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savior complex

pairing: satoru gojo x reader word count: 9.6k content: manga spoilers, fluff in the beginning, angst, if gojo had survived, depression, feelings of worthlessness, hurt w/ comfort, smut, 18+ inspired by: would you fall in love with me again from epic the musical (my SHAYLAAA)

Gojo wasn’t sure that he’d had to try so hard at anything in his life— not as hard as he tried for you.

It took weeks after that first day that you’d transferred into Jujutsu High during his third year to even get you to look at him. And sure, he knew that his flirting was rusty given the fact that he’d… never done it, but he also knew he was a handsome guy, paired with his untouchable strength as a sorcerer (pun intended), and of course his sizable wealth didn’t hurt either— he figured he was a catch.

Then you came along, with your fierce personality and your killer smile and your tendency to completely walk past him each time he tried to get your attention. It was embarrassing— the amount of times he had been left in your dust, a cocky grin slowly falling from his face as he dropped whichever technique it was that he was trying to impress you with that day, his friends barely holding back their laughter at the peacock type display Gojo seemed so confident in.

He was clueless as to what he was doing wrong. Did he stink? You didn’t seem as… uninclined to interact when it was Suguru asking you how you were adjusting to a new school. Trying as hard as he could not to look as similar to a perturbed toddler as he certainly felt, he even tried inserting himself into your conversations sometimes. It often ended horribly awkward for him, your sentence usually trailing off and your eyes giving him a tentative once over before you would continue your story— definitely not as enthused as you had been prior to his interruption though.

“Do I smell?” Satoru asked with an expression of stone cold seriousness one afternoon to an exasperated Suguru, who had already had a long day as it was without his best friend’s nonsense adding onto it. The black-haired man swiveled his head around to gaze tiredly at him, allowing his face to speak for him. “No, I’m serious. Sniff me, tell me— please.”

“Get off of me.” Suguru grunted as he shoved at the boy who was currently damn near straddling his waist while shoving his exposed armpit into his friend’s face. “Why am I nose deep in your pits right now, Satoru?”

“Because I don’t know what else is wrong with me.”

“I could think of a few—”

“It’s like I don’t even exist!” Gojo pointedly interrupted that jab before tossing himself back on Geto’s bed. “I’ve done everything. I’ve taken over missions for her, I bought her that weird ass keychain she was looking at when we all went to Kyoto— I even tried doing that thing where I blocked the rain with my infinity. She pulled out an umbrella, Suguru. If I wasn’t so embarrassed I would’ve laughed my ass off.”

“Satoru—”

“I’m talking perfect comedic timing. I thought she couldn’t get hotter and now she’s funny—”

“Have you tried getting your head out of your ass?” Suguru finally raised his voice to cut through his incessant rambling.

The six eyes blinked at him a few times from behind his rounded glasses, an expression of petulance slowly overtaking his features. Crossing his arms over his chest, he looked defiantly in the other direction.

“You didn’t have to yell—”

But he was once again cut off, this time not by his aggravated friend, but the heavy thud and clatter from the next room over. Both boys’ heads snapped to look at one another with wide eyes. It was silent for a moment.

“Isn’t that…” Gojo’s question trailed off when the boy beside him nodded affirmatively with an equally concerned expression— your dorm.

In an instant, both boys were flying out of their lazed spots on the bed, fighting to squeeze through the door at the same time. It was Satoru who first pounded his fist on your door.

“Are you okay?” He shouted as Suguru finally stumbled behind him. After a moment of silence, he tried sliding the door open, but, as expected, it was locked. Pounding his fist three more times against it, he began yelling. “Hey! I’m coming in!”

He probably could have used his technique for a less… destructive route, however your lack of response was making his mind muddle with horrendous possibilities. Leaning back, one swift kick had the offending door crashing in, and both boys were quickly hopping through. You were laying in a heap on the rugged floor by your desk, a handful of your supplies strewn around you.

“Get Shoko.” Satoru commanded blindly, sliding to his knees before you to check if you were still breathing. Just as his fingers brushed against your neck though, and Suguru was halfway out the door, you stirred from your sudden coma-like state.

Your brows furrowed, and your eyes were bleary when they opened as you slowly moved to sit up. At once, the boy in front of you was pushing you back down by the shoulders.

“Don’t move until Shoko comes to see you.”

“Shoko? No, no, I’m fine.” You sluggishly brushed off his hands before carefully standing up. A sigh of irritation left you as he shot his arms out to steady you should you fall. Sure, you knew he was only trying to help, but he wasn’t exactly your favorite person, and you were slightly (severely) embarrassed that he’d found you in such a state.

“Fine?” He laughed dryly with a shake of his head. “Sweetheart, you and I have two very different definitions of fine.”

Biting back a scowl at the pet name, you bent down to begin picking up the things you’d dropped on your way to the ground. Scoffing in disbelief, he placed his hands on your shoulders to push you down to sit at your desk chair.

“Will you sit down? You just passed out—”

“I said I’m fine. You’re not my father, and you’re not my boyfriend. So you can cut the savior crap with me.” You snapped, and the regret was almost instant the second the last syllable fell from your lips.

It was hard not to get irritated with him though. Satoru and his perfect life and untouchable powers and abundance of wealth that he seemed so sure everyone would drop to their knees for. After having fought tooth and nail to prove to your family that exploring your cursed technique would be worthwhile, it felt like a slap in the face for him to be constantly boasting about how easily everything came to him.

“Yeah? Thank god for that. I’ll make sure to call your father or your boyfriend next time you decide to collapse instead of showing any sort of concern myself like a decent fucking person.”

You weren’t sure you had ever seen him actually riled up, always with a bright (albeit obnoxious) smile on his face as he tried so desperately to get everyone else as giddy as he constantly seemed to be. A pang of guilt struck you for having been the reason Gojo finally frowned. Mentally cursing yourself, you tucked your legs against your chest, chin resting on your knees as you chewed pensively on your bottom lip. He didn’t storm out as you were sure he would have, but his back was turned to you now as he stared at the door awaiting Shoko’s arrival.

“I just… I forget to eat sometimes when I’ve got alot going on.” You explained quietly, eyes cast down to your desk. From your peripheral, you saw him turn around to face you once again. “And I won’t remember until I pass out.”

It was silent for an uncomfortable minute before a strangled laugh threatened to escape the boy’s mouth. Your head shot up to glare at him in question, exasperated at his hot and cold behavior. Upon noting your irritation, he covered his mouth with his hands as if it would stop you from hearing the cackles that shook his frame.

“You know what— fuck you, Gojo.”

“No! No, I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you— I swear!” Though he was barely able to get his frantic explanation out due to his continuous giggles. He desperately tried to get himself together as you turned away from him with burning cheeks. “I-I’m laughing because… Suguru is pulling Shoko out of class as we speak to check on you, and I broke your door down, and you�� just needed a burger.”

Satoru cursed himself to sleep that night as the scene replayed in his mind of you finally having opened up to him, and he pathetically wasted the opportunity by… laughing at you. Slamming his head repeatedly against his pillow, he thought perhaps you were just out of his league at this point, as he couldn’t for the life of him seem to get anything right with you.

He tried desperately to catch you alone the next week or so, but it seemed something else always had your attention. Whether it be your being sent on a mission, or spending time with Shoko (who knew Satoru had been begging to have a minute alone with you), or holed up in your room, headphones pressed snuggly over your ears as you hunched over your desk.

After the collapsing fiasco, you had been leaving your door slightly ajar for fear that it may be broken down again should you have another episode. The white-haired man couldn’t count how many times he’d strolled by the door under the guise of seeing Suguru who was just one room over. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could play that one off, because his friend was beginning to grow impatient with the way he’d slide into his room multiple times a day with nothing to say, standing there for a few minutes with his hands in his pockets so it seemed like he’d actually had some business there.

“Will you please just talk to her? You’re driving me insane.” Geto groaned out, just having been woken up from a nap by one of Satoru’s unexpected drop ins. “This is getting pathetic, Satoru.”

“I would if she didn’t look so busy all the damn time.” He grumbled, his forehead knocking against the door in aggravation.

His own words played back in his head, and they had him quickly straightening his posture, an unreadable expression on his face. Had Suguru been more conscious at the moment, perhaps he would have questioned his sudden mood shift. The black-haired boy was already slipping back into his leaden slumber though, allowing Gojo to quickly slip back out of the room without a second glance.

It was an embarrassing amount of time later when he returned to that hallway, though he wouldn’t know the difference because he’d never had to make an utter mess of the kitchen just to make himself— or anyone for that matter— lunch. Still, oblivious to just how unnecessarily chaotic he had been in the process, Satoru was standing beside your desk expectantly until you caught his imposing form in your peripheral. Pulling down your headphones, you looked up at him with confusion etched all over your tired face.

“Eat something.” Was the only explanation he gave, shoving a plate of… interestingly shaped onigiri toward you. You blinked down at the messy plate, your eyes trailing up to the hand attached to it that still had remnants of rice sticking to their fingers. Satoru pursed his lips at your silence, undoubtedly taking it as the same refusal you’d been giving his time and attention for months. “You’ve been in here all day studying. Eat something before you pass out again.”

But your silence wasn’t born out of the usual annoyance the white-haired man typically sparked in you. Instead, it was a stunned type of speechlessness, too touched and taken aback by what you thought was uncharacteristic thoughtfulness from the boy you were sure only thought about himself.

Gulping down the gentle lump in your throat, you slowly accepted the plate from him, eyes fixed on the lumps of rice staring back at you. From your peripheral, you watched him nod before resignatingly turning around to leave and let you eat in peace.

“Gojo?” He swiveled around frantically at the hesitant call of his name. There was a shy smile on your face as you looked up from the plate at him, tugging the headphones from your neck. “Aren’t you gonna stay?”

It was clear in the way he shifted his weight antsily between his feet and stopped the widening of his already unnaturally large eyes that he was trying with everything in him not to look too excited. Pretending to check the time on a watch that wasn’t present on his wrist, he nodded with feigned nonchalance.

“Uh… yeah, I can sit with you for a minute.”

“Just a minute?” You quipped with a raised brow.

“Or longer— no rush, y’know?” He quickly corrected as he yanked desperately at the bean bag in the corner of your room to sit beside you. The plush cushion was dragged so close to your desk chair that you wouldn’t be able to roll it away from him if you tried.

You smiled knowingly at him, holding out the plate for him to take one of the rice balls.

“Those are for you.” Satoru shook his head, pushing the plate back toward you.

“What would I do without you?” You teased, though there was a poorly concealed sincerity behind your fond eyes that had his heart beating out of his chest. With an amused smile, you shook your head at him. “Gojo, look, I appreciate the sentiment, but you made these the size of baseballs. Take one.”

A furious blush overtook his features at your words. It was admittedly quite refreshing to see the typically haughty sorcerer actually embarrassed, and it made him seem more human to you despite the lightyears of differences that seemed to separate you two. Sinking into his seat, his knees were nearly touching his chest thanks to the combination of the low seat and his freakishly long legs.

“I’ve never really made anything before.” He confessed through a sheepish murmur as he finally picked up one of his messy creations. “Guess cooking isn’t one of my countless innate talents.”

“Are you telling me the strongest sorcerer has a flaw?” You gasped dramatically, revelling in the way he narrowed his striking eyes at you from behind his glasses in feigned offense. They had slipped down his nose, revealing those long, white lashes that would have any woman green with envy.

“Can’t have it all, can I?” That infuriatingly charming smirk of his attempted to catch you off guard, but you fought past the urge to melt for him just as everyone else did so willingly. It was taking all of his own willpower to not squirm in anticipation under your gaze, what with the way you seemed to study him so closely.

“Well, that would imply you’ve got everything else.”

“Don’t I?”

“How about some shame? Humility? Social aware—”

“Would you please just eat?”

Though Satoru’s damn near shameful attempt at onigiri wasn’t exactly gonna win him any culinary awards anytime soon, it certainly won him something even better— your long-awaited attention. That next day in class, he had all but walked past you and Shoko, who were huddled beside each other discussing the reversed curse technique that you had been desperately trying to learn more about.

He figured, as you always had in the past, that you didn’t want him budding into your conversations. You caught his towering figure in your peripheral, that stark, white hair traceable in even the largest of crowds. It made your words trail mid-sentence, and you smiled apologetically at your friend before shifting around to call out to him. The typically cool-demeanored boy nearly tripped over his own feet when you asked him to join you two to give his opinion on the matter.

Shoko’s eyes rolled, a poorly concealed smirk of amusement poking up around her lit cigarette as he raced over, pushing his friend not-so-subtly aside with his shoulder in order to take the spot next to you.

It seemed as though he knew that each time you graced him with your attention, he had to make sure he made it worth your while, and he began spouting off on a shockingly eloquent rant about the subject at hand. You hadn’t been aware that he was actually… quite intelligent under all that bravado and foolishness. In fact, you were quickly learning, as you watched him turn red in the face from the speed at which he was info-dumping, that Satoru was kind of a giant nerd.

This newfound side of him that you’d been a fool not to allow him the chance to show to you, made you actually start to understand why everyone seemed to be so fond of him. Aside from his boyish charm and knockout face, he was an avid intellectual— a trait he always seemed to be bursting at the seams to share with anyone who would listen to him.

The two of you traded books and tips, and he tried to reel back his innate cockiness each time he was able to teach you something you didn’t know, though you were quickly beginning to understand that haughtiness was simply part of the Satoru Gojo package. Alongside his surprising thoughtfulness and undeniable ability to make you crack a smile even in your lowest of moods, you decided that you could let his occasional arrogance slide.

Despite all your best attempts to maintain your nonchalance at the man who wore the title of the strongest like the boldest of tattoos across his forehead, no levels of his infuriating infinity could even keep you away from falling right into Satoru’s orbit. Even the heavens above knew that nothing would keep him from pulling you right in either.

That was why even all these years later, no one in this world could have convinced you that the same boy who fought tooth and nail for your affection as a mere teenager would have abandoned you so carelessly now.

“Would you please just eat?”

Those painstakingly familiar words were now falling from the lips of Megumi Fushiguro, who, alongside his fellow students, seemed to be the only evidence of the white-haired man you had had contact with in the days following your fiance’s battle with the King of Curses. The ring on your left hand only served to mock you the longer this charade went on.

You looked up from the glimmering stone to glare haphazardly up at the raven-haired boy before you. He was clutching a tray of somen noodles within his scarred hands, his face firm with exasperation despite the disheartened glint in his dark eyes. Ignoring the furious growls in your stomach at the sight of the dish, you glanced to the side.

“It’s been three days, Megumi.” You stated monotonously, but the tears that brimmed in your waterline betrayed you. “If he died, then just tell me. I can handle—”

“He doesn’t want to see you. He left.” The boy repeated for what must have been the tenth time since breaking the news to you.

Itadori and Kugisaki trailed just outside the entrance of the common area where you had taken up residence in protest of Gojo’s sudden disappearance. Fushiguro had always been closer to you than the others had, what with your having been there when his benefactor took him in. The other two student’s weren’t sure they could handle that broken look in your eyes as well as their aloof counterpart could.

“He wouldn’t have left like this.” You insisted through gritted teeth, swiping furiously at the traitorous tears that raced down your sunken cheeks. “Tell him if he wants to leave me that he can come say it to my face. Until then, take your food and go come up with a better excuse.”

The shadow-user sighed desolately at your continued refusal. He only wished he could tell you that he wanted nothing more than for his mentor to man up and come face you himself. It was killing him to see you waste away like this with the hopes that it would draw Gojo out from wherever it was he was hiding. You had refused to leave that stiff couch, refused to eat, refused to accept the lies your fiance had told them to give you to explain his absence.

While it infuriated him to no end, Megumi could also, for once, understand the white-haired man’s ever-confusing decisions. Despite that part of him that felt he would have likely done the same thing, the boy knew deep down that you would be able to handle this situation far better than what Gojo was giving you credit for.

Setting the tray down on the table in front of you, Megumi nodded to his friends to leave you be once again. It was now his turn to report back to the man of the hour, hoping that something would get through to him if he heard how long it had been since you’d moved an inch.

Your form of protest was skillfully thought out, because you were right— it was killing Satoru to know that you were wasting away by yourself in that desolate common room. After all these years, it would have been foolish of him to assume that you wouldn’t know the best ways to get under his skin. Perhaps he should have had them tell you he was dead, though he was selfishly worried about the permanent consequences that lie would have. That, and he had a feeling that somehow you two were far too soul-tied for you to not be able to tell if he’d truly left this earth or not.

The supposed strongest was trying desperately to stay resolute in his decision, because if there was one thing he knew for certain, it was that he no longer deserved you. After everything he’d done, everything he hadn’t been strong enough to do, Satoru couldn’t bear the thought of sleeping beside you each night knowing what he was once capable of, now that he was no longer.

What would you think of him? Even if you did accept him as he was now, would it only be out of pitiful obligation? He wasn’t sure he could stomach the idea of you shifting your life to accommodate him— not when he had made it his life’s mission since you two were teenagers to assure you never had to lift a finger if it wasn’t what you truly wanted to do.

Satoru would hardly be able to blame you. When he got down on one knee, you had agreed to marry a version of him that no longer existed— one that was an unstoppable force, that could protect and please you without so much as breaking a sweat. This version of himself that he was now being forced to come to terms with was worthless, only a shell of his former self that you had fallen in love with.

The stubbornness that he had grown to love since you first turned your cheek to him all those years ago was only infuriating him now. It was making it that much harder to leave you behind as he knew was best for you when you were reminding him with each passing day how well you knew him, and he wasn’t sure anyone had ever understood him on such a level— and no one ever would again.

After nearly a week of this back and forth, with your only leaving your post to shower and barely accepting food, Satoru wasn’t sure if he’d be able to wait out your stubborn protest as he thought would be his only option. Each day, he’d tell himself that you’d cave eventually— you’d give up and go back home. You would move on and live your life until you forgot about him, safe from the burden of who he’d become. Each day though, you proved him wrong.

The lights of the common room had already dimmed for the night, the only illumination coming from the gentle rays of the moon’s glow as it creeped in through the windows. Winter was taking its toll on the campus, especially the room you’d stubbornly decided to stay put in for the past week or so. At least if you had been at home, the comfort of your heater promised protection from the building cold.

Despite how much your body trembled under the solace of the blanket Megumi had brought for you, you knew that home wouldn’t be nearly as comforting as the trick of nostalgia was telling you— not without Satoru there to share that warmth.

Curling in on yourself, you stared blankly at the low table in front of you where another tray of food had been left untouched. Truthfully, a part of you wondered how much longer you could keep this protest up, only the occasional pack of soda crackers fortifying you as you waited out Satoru’s absence. The more stubborn side of you said you’d wither away here on this unforgiving couch if it meant you at least went down trying.

The soft patter of snow falling against the windows lulled your stinging eyes shut. Even your dreams had been desperately trying to make sense of your fiance’s uncharacteristic abandonment. Nightmares plagued you most nights, Satoru being at the forefront of each one; they all ended in his horrendous death— because death was the only logical explanation you could conjure up for him leaving you behind so mercilessly.

Tonight’s cinematic retelling of the endless possibilities of his final fate had you awakening with a start. No matter how many nights now that you had spent reliving the same grief over and over again, no amount of repitition could stop the way the tears that should have run out by now would pour from your eyes first thing each morning.

The moon was still watching over you when you decided to pull yourself from your latest nightmare. Panting out through strained sobs, the blanket slipped down your shoulders upon your abrupt descent into a sitting position. It didn’t take you long to realize that you weren’t alone tonight, despite the criminally early hour it must have been.

Your wide, burning eyes blinked a few times at the man standing before you as though he might vanish back into the depths of your imagination should you clear your bleary eyes enough. He remained firmly in his place, silent as death as you processed the scene you had woken up to.

He figured you might yell at him, hit him with all the force of a scorned woman, tell him off for having disappeared, but you only assessed him quietly. With narrowed eyes, you took in the way his hair had grown out slightly past his normal length, covering his forehead in a manner that almost seemed intentional. His dark-rimmed glasses covered up the eyes that you had been longing to see for so long, almost mocking you as your own reflection stared back at you through the lenses.

Satoru— he was standing right before you, shoulders rising and falling, but silent, and uncharacteristically so. You’d be able to pick him out of a crowd, you were sure of it, but there was something so different about him now as he stared down at you. The tendrils of cursed energy that were typically flowing out of him in overwhelming waves no longer filled the air around you. They once blanketed you in their demanding presence, but now the air surrounding you was lighter, his energy a stark difference to the one you had grown used to.

Slowly, you stood from the couch, the frigid touch of the wood floors permeating the thick layer of your socks and sending a shiver down your spine. Your eyes never left his concealed ones as you rose to stand just a hair’s breadth away from him. His Adam's apple bobbed at your sudden proximity, and it was taking all of his already frail energy to not wrap you in his arms to chase away the cold that dared to bite at your frame.

The man flinched back notably as your hand reached up for his glasses, but it didn’t deter you from carefully pulling them off of his face. He closed his eyes though, desperately resolute in his attempt to conceal the truth from you.

“Look at me.”

Your simple demand nearly broke his resolve after so long of longing to hear that melodic voice of yours again. Clenching his jaw, he slowly allowed his eyes to open, unsure of why he thought you wouldn’t be able to tell that something was different about him.

And different it was.

Satoru’s once other-worldly, glittering eyes that shone with the promise of his earth-shattering abilities were now dulled— still that breathtaking blue that you had come to love, however the absence of the trait he prided himself so devoutly on was evident, even in the dim moonlight.

You watched as he tried to keep his face neutral, but that fierce insecurity that was so rare to see on him was breaking through his changed eyes. There was no explanation needed— you understood now with stunning clarity why he had tried to stay away.

He must have taken your silence for horror, his lips pulling into a firm line as he leaned down to grab the tray of food he had come here with the intention of delivering to you himself. The carefully prepared meal was shoved forward.

“Eat.”

His firm order shook you from your trance, and you were now beginning to notice the countless scars lining his face and arms that hadn’t been there when you kissed him goodbye that dreaded morning before the battle. Blinking back the mist in your eyes, you sniffled and shook your head at him, squaring your shoulders in a fierce display of determination.

“I want to eat at home.” You explained through calculated eye contact. “Take me home, Satoru.”

It was becoming increasingly difficult to conceal the pain it was igniting in him to refuse you. Painting a scowl onto his features, he pressed the tray against your chest.

“I didn’t change my mind.” He insisted unyieldingly, hoping the contempt he was feigning was convincing. “I’m leaving, I don’t want to be with you anymore. Now— eat.”

His words were undoubtedly a slap in the face, evident in the way you flinched back subtly. Gulping down the lump in your throat, your eyes trailed down his visibly tired frame once again. His arms were trembling ever so slightly with the weight of the tray in his hands, and you were now noticing the matching scars circling both his arms.

“You don’t want to be with me anymore?” You repeated, though your question came out more like a statement, and it took him a moment before he reminded himself to offer a solid nod in confirmation.

With a solemn nod of your own, you took the tray from him to place it back on the table before tugging the engagement ring off of your finger. His face contorted gut-wrenchingly at the sight, barely able to register what you were doing as you lifted his hand to place the ring in the center of it. Your expression remained fiercely neutral as you held out your own palm to him. He only blinked down at you, a misty haze clouding his gaze.

“Give me your ring.” You demanded simply.

It had been glaring at you since you first opened your eyes and saw him, glimmering under the faint glow of the moon. The promise ring you had given him in exchange for the one he gifted you on your third anniversary together— it was still sat proudly on his left-hand’s ring finger, awaiting to be replaced by a wedding band just as he’d replaced yours with an engagement ring only a few months ago.

He swallowed thickly at your request, but you only shook your outstretched palm at him in expectation. Looking down at his left hand, his thumb absentmindedly rolled over the silver band, feeling the indents of you two’s initials carved into the metal under his fingertip. Despite his best efforts to control his expression, his bottom lip trembled at the implications of what he was about to do. Your heart cracked as you watched the tears pool in his eyes. Dropping his head, he allowed his hair to curtain over his eyes as the salty streams began pouring down his cheeks.

“Don’t do this to me.” He whispered desolately with a shake of his head. A heavy sigh fell from your lips, drooping your shoulders in the process.

“Then put that ring back on my finger and take me home, Toru.”

“And then what?” Satoru exclaimed, finally looking up at you through the blur of his frustrated tears. The abrupt motion shifted his rustled hair, revealing a sliver of the thick scar running across his forehead. “I’m not the same man you agreed to marry.”

“Don’t be ridiculous—”

“Look at me!” His furious command had you flinching back ever-so-slightly. “I can barely stand on my own two feet without running out of breath. I’m weak— I lost damn near everything, and I’m not the same Satoru anymore, okay?”

“Then I will walk with you every fucking day until you get better. I never loved you because you were strong, so I don’t give a shit if you’re weak now, Satoru. And don’t you dare stand there and tell me you lost everything because I am still here, and no amount of scars are going to make me leave.”

An agonized sob shook his frame, and he was quickly stumbling forward to sink onto the couch with a wince. Tears of your own began slipping down your face as you moved to sit beside him. He buried his face into his hands, your engagement ring still hanging on the tip of his pinky finger.

“I don’t have anything left to give you.” His pained whisper struck you in the chest.

Leaning forward, you carefully wrapped your arm around his bicep. There was an attempted subtly in the way you ran your fingertips delicately over the new scar circling the muscle, and you tried not to cry out as your mind put two and two together of what could have possibly happened to warrant such symmetrical marks across his body. As you tucked your chin onto his shoulder, he finally peered over at you. You offered him a wistful smile even through your tears.

“When have I ever asked anything more of you than to stay with me?”

Just like all those years ago in your dorm room, Satoru couldn’t bear to deny you— not when you asked him so sweetly with those wide, hopeful eyes of yours. He slipped your ring back onto its rightful place and pressed a lingering kiss to the stone. The wetness of his tears dripped onto your hand, but you couldn’t possibly think of a better feeling after having gone so long without him.

It wasn’t until you two finally made it back to your shared home that night that he realized that in the haste of his giving into you once again, he had all but forgotten about why it was so important to him that he stay away.

“Why don’t you take a hot shower? You’re still shaking, you wimp.” Satoru tried to sound lightheaded, poking fun at you like was once so common for him, but nothing about this new arrangement would ever be common again.

You glanced over your shoulder from the sink, where you had busied yourself cleaning the bowls you two had just eaten from. It admittedly took longer than you had expected to finish eating, as your fiancé kept pushing more food onto your plate to make up for the hunger strike he was still grumbling about that you went on.

Turning back to place the final dish on the drying rack, you smiled fondly.

“That depends, are you gonna come help warm me up?”

Your teasing offer made the smile slowly slip from his face, though you wouldn’t see it with your back turned to him. He looked down at himself— the scars that now littered his body and how difficult even the most mundane of tasks had become for him in his gruelling recovery. The gentle hum of question that escaped you at his sudden silence reminded him that you were still expecting a response.

“Well, I—”

“C’mon, I’ll meet you there.” Your airy invitation cut off whatever excuse he was about to make, and he couldn’t help but wonder if you knew exactly what he was thinking as you made your way to your shared bedroom, ruffling at his already tousled hair on the way. He remained idly at the table, staring down at himself hesitantly as the soft patters of the running shower reached his ears.

It had been quite some time since you two were last intimate— what with his being sealed and the immediate need for his services following his release. Sex had never been an area of insecurity for Satoru. After all, he was strong and confident, and he never once had to doubt your attraction toward him. Now though, his stamina wasn’t the same, and his body sure as hell didn’t look as aesthetically pleasing as it had the last time he’d bared himself to you.

Carefully standing from his seat, he stretched out his stiff muscles before practically dragging his feet toward the room he once couldn’t wait to get you alone in. The bathroom had already steamed up considerably from the scorching water you always liked boiling yourself in. The apprehensive man hovered in the doorway, lips parting at the sight of your heavenly silhouette through the fogged, glass shower door.

“Toru?” You called out upon hearing the door creak open a bit further.

Cracking the shower open, you poked your head through with an anticipatory smile, but it quickly fell upon seeing the sullen expression on his face and the way his fingers twisted in uncertainty into the hem of his shirt.

“It’s just me, babe.” You offered gently, and he responded with a barely noticeable nod.

“Yeah, just… give me a minute. I’ll be right there.”

He was grateful that you were gracious enough to recognize his need for your patience as you nodded in understanding and slipped back into the shower. Glancing up at the ceiling in hopes that he wouldn’t catch his own reflection in the mirror, he carefully lifted his shirt over his head, wincing faintly at the stretch. His bottoms were soon joining the discarded top on the marble floor. The mirror in his peripheral taunted him, and he kept his gaze cast down as he slowly made his way to the shower.

You smiled upon hearing the door slide open behind you, biting your cheek in anticipation of his warm hands sliding around your middle— because Lord knows your fiance was never known for his ability to keep his hands to himself. Those wandering hands never came though, and you gradually peered over your shoulder.

He was standing just outside the shower stream, arms hovering hesitantly at his sides. The expression on his face appeared angry— not at you though, almost as though there was a self-inflicted war waging in his mind as he awaited your reaction. You blinked the continuously running water from your eyes as you turned fully around to face him. After a moment of careful, reassuring eye contact, you allowed your eyes to drift down over his tense frame.

There were a myriad of the tiniest slashes running across nearly every inch of him. Even more striking though, was the thick, jagged scar circling the entire circumference of his waist. The lump in the back of your throat made it nearly impossible to swallow down the tears threatening to spill out. Still, you did so for his sake, because the cautionary glint in his eyes told you he was waiting for your disapproval.

The tips of your fingers reached out to graze the area carefully, knowing that despite how much the RCT must have sped along the healing process, it likely still felt fresh. He shivered under the featherlight touch of your fingertips. Your glistening body drew closer to him, and he wasn’t sure whether his insecurity would be stronger than his lust for you as your breasts grazed his chest.

With a fond hum, your hands drifted up his chest to circle around his neck. He tried to conceal his grunt of effort as he leaned down to your level in order to kiss you properly. Nearly slipping as you lifted yourself on your tiptoes to help him, his hands immediately shot forward to steady you shakily.

With all the doubts running through his mind, he expected you to huff in frustration, to pull away from him as he certainly wouldn’t blame you for doing. You only smiled witsfully against his dewy lips though, the bridge of your nose brushing against his as you whispered sincerely.

“I missed you.”

Still, Satoru wasn’t sure that his long awaited presence would ever be enough.

After some time, you agreed to go back to work at the school, especially since Gojo was nowhere near prepared to get back into the swing of things. Though no one dared speak it into existence, everyone had already silently accepted the fact that he’d likely never be able to take on missions like he once did. More hands off teaching— sure, though it felt like a slap in the face compared to what he once was capable of.

It wasn’t as though this was something new you were needing to jump into now. No, you had begun working as soon as you graduated just as he had. The difference was, you worked with the understanding that you really didn’t need to be doing it, and your partner always made sure you knew that you could quit at any time under the safety of his sizable wealth. Now though, there was a significant need for more help with the students in Gojo’s absence, and it was eating him alive that you now felt responsible for picking up that slack despite your insistence that you wanted to help.

Satoru had no clue anymore just what it was that he was providing you in this relationship.

“Baby, they’ll be fine.” He pleaded for the upteenth time, unable to bear the thought of you breaking your own back while he stays at home— utterly useless. “They can wait a little longer until I come back.”

You smiled with a shake of your head, slathering on some of that lotion you always wore before bed that never failed to drive him crazy.

“I’ve been home for the past week. You’re not sick of seeing me?”

He scoffed as though personally offended by your accusation. Shifting forward to replace your hands with his own, he kissed your shoulder as his hands continued to work the cream into your thighs from behind. The tiniest sparks of hope ignited in him when you sighed quietly under your breath, your head gently falling back against his bare chest at the sensation of the devastatingly familiar ridges on his fingertips against your skin.

Being intimate with you again was something he was pointedly avoiding— too ashamed of his own body to feel remotely confident enough to engage in it, and far too worried the new stress on this body would make for a comparably disappointing experience than what you were used to. Even so, he could see it on your face and feel it in your wanton sighs just how much you had missed him, and it was becoming harder and harder for him to act as though he didn’t miss it too.

“I’ll never get sick of you.” Satoru breathed sincerely against your cheek, his thumbs digging desolately into the fat of your inner thighs. They parted in anticipation at his languid motions, allowing his hand to slip up the loose leg of your silken sleep shorts.

“Promise?” You teased breathlessly, fisting the fabric of his sweatpants as his fingers creeped up your fluttering core.

“With everything in me.” Though he wasn’t sure just how much that entailed anymore.

Maybe, he thought as he dipped two fingers into your awaiting heat, if he could at least make love to you he wouldn’t feel like a complete waste of space— like there was still something he could give you even if it meant pushing the limits of his already fragile body. His arm began to ache in tandem with his steady rhythm, but you were whimpering so sweetly into his ear as though he still deserved to hear it.

Leaning down, Satoru captured your lips in a frenzied attempt to swallow up all the pent up energy spilling from your plush lips. In his lust-clouded mind, he thought maybe it would heal him, breathe life back into his sore muscles and tingling nerve endings that taunted him with every curl of his fingers against your sweet walls. Your mouth parted involuntarily against his in a blissed cry, and it was enough to convince him that— maybe he did still have it in him.

Offering a forlorn moan of his own, your fiancé frantically parted from you to push you back down against the mattress, each scarred over stitch across his torso screaming in protest, but he had something to prove now as he allowed his sweatpants to fall to the floor.

Your half lidded eyes drank him in greedily, relieved to see that despite his carefully calculated restraint throughout the past few days, he still wanted you just as much as you had been craving him. Slipping your shorts down easily, neither of you seemed patient enough to waste anymore time after so long without one another.

Satoru climbed back onto the bed, hoping you didn’t notice his wince of effort on the way. It seemed he was in the clear though, and your graceful fingers slipped up his nape and tangled into his freshly cut hair. Though he wasn’t too keen on the idea of going to a barbershop just yet— what with the peculiar scar running across his forehead, he had agreed to sit on the closed toilet lid just a few nights prior as you stood between his spread legs and carefully trimmed the wisps of white hair that had grown past his wide eyes.

You were so grateful that you did, because now your view of those messianic eyes was unobstructed and knocking the air straight from your lungs as they always had the unique power of doing. With a heart that felt as though it was turning to mush under his zealous gaze, your impatient hands circled his hips carefully to pull his already lined up length into you.

“God— I missed you so much.” He gasped, though he could barely get his words out through the desperate kisses he was pressing against any inch of you he could reach. You moaned in relief, tears threatening to pool in your eyes at the intensity of the long-awaited connection. “I’ll never leave you again— I swear. I’m sorry, I love you. Fuck, you feel—”

You cut him off with a sloppily aimed kiss, a fond smile breaking through your lips as you realized that of course, if his near death was going to leave him with one thing, it was going to be his rapid-fire tongue. Satoru only whined against your mouth, forgoing his previous caution and shifting his hips forward to roll into you. His stamina was already dwindling by the second, emphasized by the growing tenderness in his torso, but he’d be damned if he wouldn’t see you through your much deserved climax.

“You okay, Toru?” You panted against his lips, taking note of the way his fist trembled against the sheets beside your head.

“‘M perfect— don’t worry about me.” He lied, dipping down to nip at your collarbone in hopes of distracting you from the clear discomfort racing through his bones. “You’re perfect, keep making those pretty noises for me, yeah?”

It was enough to placate you for just a second longer, unable to deny him as the pitched moans continued flowing from your lips. Your pliancy spurred him on, making him feel far more confident than he should have in his current state as he ran a heated hand down your body to hook it behind your thigh. It wasn’t until he lifted it over his shoulder to snap his hips up in that way he was so used to making you melt, that a strangled curse fell through his gritted teeth.

“Satoru—”

“I’m fine, please.” Your fiance quickly implored even through the pained scrunch of his striking features. His hand fell from your thigh to cup your face, squishing your cheeks between his frenzied fingers as it was clear the once blissed expression on your face was falling in place of frantic concern.

“You’re not—”

“I am. C’mon, let me take care of you—”

“Satoru, get off.”

The continued plea that was preparing to escape him got caught unceremoniously in his throat at your command. Gulping down the bile that threatened to rise up his throat, his blown out eyes searched your face while he slowly inched away from you. Shuffling up onto your elbows, you carefully pushed him onto his back, falling safely against the mountain of feathery pillows.

His face remained solemn as you crawled over him, and though he had never been one to deny the sight of you on top of him, with the silken skin of your thighs glistening in the moonlight that flowed in through the windows and the flimsy sleeves of your tank top slid halfway down your arm— the fact still remained that it was because he couldn’t do it. The very body hindering him betrayed him as his jaw dropped at the bittersweet feeling of you sinking down onto him.

It shouldn’t have mattered. Your face still mirrored the very bliss it reflected when he had you beneath him, but every roll of your supple hips that inched him closer to his release felt like a slash to his already mutilated chest. How could you still look at him with such admiration, and who the fuck was he if not the strongest anymore?

That night, you slept soundly beside him, curled carefully into his side with all the peace of someone who’d just made love to a partner they’d long believed dead. It drew a smooth tranquility over each crease and furrow that once dared to disturb your delicate face, your lips parted crookedly due to your cheek’s positioning against his chest.

Dawn creeped closer and closer with the looming threat of what he’d soon be forced to accept while sleep drifted farther from his reach. His eyes burned as they stared down at your slumbering figure for hours on end, willing himself to be able to see every atom that worked in angelic harmony to make up his love the way his six eyes once allowed him the privilege of. He only grew more restless as the mundanity of his pupils only graced him with the surface level of your fathomless allure.

Blinking away the haze that had glazed over his tired eyes, Satoru looked away from you for the first time in hours to glance at the time on the clock. It wouldn’t be long before your wretched alarm would be waking you to get ready and shoulder the burden that was once his alone. With a huff of vexation, he carefully maneuvered himself out from under you, replacing himself with the body pillow you always used in his absence.

A strained wince escaped him as he stood quietly from the bed, yet no amount of stretching seemed to soothe what he feared would be an everpresent ache. Willing himself through it, he used his foot to scoop his discarded sweatpants up in order to avoid bending down and reminding himself of his deficits.

The lights of the kitchen nearly blinded his sleepless irises when he flicked them on, and he groaned while attempting to adjust to the sudden onslaught. His shoulders fell slowly as he looked around the kitchen in uncertainty, opening up various cabinets until he found the small collection of bento boxes the two of you had accumulated over the years.

Gojo chewed at his bottom lip in concentration, rummaging through nearly every utensil drawer and refrigerator shelf in his pursuit. It was actually a damn miracle he didn’t wake you up in his chaotic gathering of tools and ingredients— what with each grunt of effort as he squatted and reached above his head in search of a specific pot or seasoning.

Despite his best efforts to take it easy, his mounting frustration only grew with each tremor of his hand as he attempted to cut up the leftover salmon you two had eatent the night before into tiny chunks. With a shake of his head, he tightened his grip around the base of the knife in determination, praying to whichever god had forsaken him that he could just do this one thing for you.

In typical Gojo fashion, there was a trail of chaos being left in his wake— bonito flakes spilled about the counter and used utensils strewn all around him by the time he was finally finishing up what would have been a simple project if at the hands of anyone else. He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of your alarm going off in the next room, and it had him speeding up his movements in a frantic attempt to get everything organized before you stepped out.

“Toru?” Your voice was still laced with sleep by the time your gentle footsteps were making their way out into the kitchen.

Washing off the remaining bits of sticky rice clinging to his fingers, he swiveled around to face you. Your eyes widened a bit upon seeing the flush of effort still staining his face, but he smiled tiredly at you nonetheless, a subtle timidness behind his eyes that you hadn’t seen on him in so long. Stepping forward slowly, you eyed him carefully as he wiped his trembling hands on his already stained sweatpants.

“You sleep okay?” He mumbled into the crown of your head as he pulled you into his chest, careful not to mess up the style you had placed it in for work.

“Yeah,” You answered hesitantly, pressing a kiss to his chest before pulling away from him and adjusting your bag over your shoulder. “What are you doing up so early?”

Averting his gaze from you bashfully, he turned around to grab the neatly folded bag to present to you, weighed down by the brim-stuffed bento box he had placed in it. Staring down at it to avoid looking in your eyes, he pursed his lips awkwardly as though embarrassed by his attempt at packing you a lunch.

“They’ll probably be up your ass all day since they’ve been short.” Satoru began, his fingers drumming quietly against the bag with a small shrug of his shoulders. “Don’t need you passing out on me.”

His attempted chuckle at his half-hearted joke came out hesitantly as he watched you blink owlishly down at the bag outstretched to you in offering. You slowly took the bag from him, a small smile tugging at the corners of your glossed lips. He reached up to scratch at the nape of his neck in uncertainty.

“It’s just some rice balls, but I can probably go out today and get some—”

You cut him off, reaching up onto your tip-toes to press an appreciative kiss to his jaw.

“What would I do without you?” Your love-sick smile caught him by surprise, a dumb-struck expression falling onto his flushed face.

Before he could stammer out a response (not that his short-circuiting mind would be capable of coherent speech right now), you pressed one more, longing kiss to his lips before promising to see him later that night and rushing out the door.

Satoru stared absently at the door that had just closed behind you as a gradual understanding flooded his consciousness. Perhaps it was just because it had been so long since he felt the need to fight for your approval, or maybe it was that he simply never learned his lesson, no matter how much you had worked to engrain it into him over all these years. It was hardly fair to blame him though, given that all the love he’d ever been shown had those six eyes of his trailing not too far behind.

But you— you had never batted an eye at his status, or his money, and certainly not his powers. All those years ago it had only taken some horribly disfigured rice balls for you to fall for him, stubbornly never too impressed by his technique or silver tongue.

It was a few, lovingly crafted onigiri that helped you recognize his place in your life, and it was the very thing that, even all these years later, was helping him recognize it as well.

a/n: inner theater kid effectively placated thank u

masterlist | requests | talk to me ❤︎

I love hearing everyone's thoughts! ◝⠀(ᵔᵕᵔ)⠀◜

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blanc-ci · 5 months ago

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Really want to make a pre-surak au thing that opens on these two “warrior” Vulcans fighting it out on sehlats in gaudy armor and “traditional” weapons, just REALLY leaning into the “pre Surak is pre-technology” warlike tribal Vulcans in skimpy clothing misconception

And then the scene zooms out and we start to see bleachers and hear cheering/jeering and vendors who wander the crowds selling snacks. There’s a drone wizzing overhead to film wide dynamic shots of the fight. Cameras flashing.

Cuts to this overly-enthused announcer narrating the whole thing, and we zoom out again to see this being watched on a fancy flatscreen in a fancy modern livingroom by a couple of equally enthused Vulcan girls- it’s basically wwe

(And of course, this would be where our au!Spock enters, seeing the tv and scoffing “can’t believe you’re watching this nonsense” he starts watching anyway)

#Spock being the black sheep of a rich family #hes a woman in STEM #the girls are his “sisters” but in the sense that I’m thinking Vulcan households are very multi-generation #so they’re cousins that he calls his sisters #Star Trek #mine

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ddejavvu · 2 years ago

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if you would ever consider writing more tutor!reid x hotchner! reader, could i please request something where maybe she gets a really high grade on an assignment or midterm and she shows up to the office to tell spencer in person? maybe they’ve been together for a little at this point <333 i hope you’re doing well we appreciate you so much

part 1

Usually when you rush through the doors of the BAU, you beeline for your dad's office. You've been told not to run a thousand times, but nothing ever stops you when you're excited, and the team has learned to ignore your thunderous footsteps until you've gotten the enthusiasm out of your system.

This time, though, instead of racing up the stairs, you rush to Spencer's desk.

"Spence!" You call, and he has little time to turn and take you in before you're grabbing greedily at his face, pressing your lips to his in a clumsy, over-eager kiss.

Ever-dramatic, several BAU mouths fall open around the bullpen. Emily's eyes are shining with amusement, and Derek looks like he's seen a ghost, while various shit-eating grins pass around the small space. Spencer reacts slow, but places his hand over your own on his cheek, blinking bewilderedly when you draw back.

"Angel-" He starts, and the team is only more enthused to hear a nickname like that drop from his lips like it's commonplace, "What-?"

"I got a 100%," You breathe, almost too excited to form actual words. Luckily, you don't have to, because Spencer shoots out of his seat at the news, nearly knocking you backwards if he hadn't caught you around the waist.

The kiss he presses to your lips is equally as urgent and impromptu as the one you'd captured him in, only this time he's the one holding onto you. You have no problem throwing your arms around his neck and giggling into the affection, and when you part lips it's with shaky, shallow breaths.

"That's amazing," He gushes, kissing again at your slightly shiny lips, "Angel, that's incredible!"

"You're incredible!" You counter, "I never would have done it without your help, Spence."

"You two kissed!" Penelope informs you, standing bewilderedly in the doorway of the kitchenette, "Y/N, you- you kissed Spencer!"

"She does that a lot," Your dad emerges from behind her, a note of resignation in his voice even though he swears he's happy for you, "Mostly at my house."

"They-" Penelope turns, dumbfounded as she stares at her boss, "You knew?"

"He caught us," You admit sheepishly, leaning against Spencer's chest, "We were studying math, but- well, we got distracted."

Morgan snickers, standing up to clap Spencer on the shoulder, "Hey, nice one, pretty boy. I'm proud of you. Gonna study anatomy next?"

Your dad's voice drowns out any indignant groans from the team, booming so loudly over the bullpen that you duck your face instinctively against Spencer's chest.

"Agent Morgan, my office, now!"

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coldbronzemoon · 2 months ago

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To Extend Our Reach to the Stars Above

A one-shot based off of @nropay's superhero au concept :). Featuring Mabel and Dipper as a pair of magical girls (magical pre-teens, more like) and Stan and Ford as a retired villain and not-quite-retired hero who are horrified to realize what their niece and nephew are getting themselves into.

Yes, the title is taken from the Team Rocket motto.

The more Dipper read through the mysterious Journal 3 he’d found, the more he was convinced that he had discovered a gold mine. There were so many cool things in there—zombies, ghosts, magical springs that transformed you, living fire, a dozen other strange and magical mysteries!

Mabel was less interested in the whole thing, so Dipper was hunting through the book for cool things she’d get excited about as she flipped through tv channels in their Grunkle’s living room.

"Look at this," Dipper exclaimed, scooting closer to his sister on the recliner and angling the book so she could see it better. He began reading off the cursive. "I've recently uncovered a spell meant to magically infuse those who recite it with incredible power! By placing candles within a circle of the zodiac and reciting the following incantation, one should be gifted powers from a higher plane.”

“Hold on,” Mabel said, her eyes shining as she sat up and started skimming the page with him. She looked more enthused about the Journal than she had all day. “Can we get ourselves some real magic?”

Dipper continued on. “I attempted the spell, but it produced no observable effects..."

"Awww," Mabel groaned, deflating.

"No, no, hold on. But this may be due to my established connection to another source of magic. Perhaps I can experiment by having others perform the ritual..."

"Oooh," she said, immediately perking up again. "So it will turn us into witches or something?"

"Maybe," Dipper said. "Or whoever wrote this is just crazy. Or the spell is real, but it will just drive us mad or curse us forever or something."

There was a beat of silence. Mabel and Dipper looked at each other, their eyes both narrowed in contemplation.

Then: "So we're totally gonna try this, right?"

"Yup! What else are we gonna do? Ask Grunkle Stan for more chores?"

They burst into laughter at the very idea, jumping up at the same time so they could search for candles and Mabel's washable markers. There was no time like the present when it came to committing dubious magical rituals to gain power.

"No glitter!" Dipper shouted to Mabel as he went to the kitchen. He was pretty sure there had been a bunch of those plain, thin candles below the sink.

He had no idea why Grunkle Stan would have those candles—maybe some sort of apocalypse-prepper thing like the cans of brown meat?—but he was grateful for them. If he had time to go to the store to get some, he might have time to back out and Mabel would tease him for it endlessly.

They met back up in their bedroom, dumping their ritual supplies on the floor. Dipper had gotten the candles, some paper plates for the candles so they didn’t have to scrape wax off the floor, and a knife, because he assumed most arcane rituals would include a knife somehow. Mabel procured a rainbow’s worth of chalk instead of the washable markers.

“Good thinking,” he told her. It’d be easier to wipe away the chalk, and he was pretty sure most ritual circles were done in chalk anyway.

Mabel flashed him a smug smile. They got to work recreating the one sketched out in the Journal onto the wooden floor of their bedroom. Mabel’s skill at creating perfect circles came in handy as Dipper focused on the smaller, strange symbols near the middle.

The ritual circle was comprised of three layers: the largest held the symbols of the Western Zodiac. Below that was a secondary ring of more puzzling symbols, like glasses and a fish and a bag of ice, and then in the very middle was a small circle with a set of six strange pronged lines springing out from equal sides of it.

Mabel insisted all the symbols be different colors, and Dipper obliged her. He didn’t see how that could mess the ritual up or anything.

Once they had the circle set up, they retreated out of it to consult the incantation in the Journal. Dipper was pleased to see that he was right and that they did need a knife for the ritual, as it required a bit of blood from them.

First, though, they read the incantation together a couple times to try and remember it, eventually agreeing to just put the book in the circle to read from once it became clear that Latin they didn’t actually understand was pretty hard to remember.

Mabel donated her pig plushie Waddles to the effort, setting him against the Journal so it stayed open on the ritual page even if their cool magic chanting ended up generating some wind or something. That left Dipper holding the paring knife he had taken from the kitchen.

“Should we, like, cut our palms or something?” Dipper said.

He kind of wanted to cut his palm. It was what everyone in every type of media always seemed to do while invoking an arcane ritual, and they always looked so cool doing it.

“How are we going to do anything with a cut palm?” Mabel said, adjusting Waddles. “I don’t wanna wait weeks for that to heal, Dip-dop. We only need a little blood.”

That was an unfortunately good point, Dipper had to admit.

They settled for each pricking a spot on their arms and using their fingers to smear it on the wood floor, which was probably fine for the ritual. If whatever god they were going to call to didn’t like it, that god could get over itself.

With the blood added and the book in place, there was little else to do but actually do the spell.

They stepped into the symbol together, standing on either side of the smallest circle. Dipper’s palms were getting sweaty from a mix of nerves and pure excitement. They were about to do an actual magical ritual!

Mabel grabbed his hands.

“Uh,” said Dipper, a little baffled.

“It’s a ritual thingy, isn’t it?” she said. “Don’t they always have people holding hands in a circle and stuff?”

The entry in the Journal hadn’t said anything about having to hold hands while summoning whatever crazy magical deity was going to give them sick superpowers, but just as he opened his mouth to tell her that, he actually looked at her. Her eyes were a little tight even as she grinned, and the grip she had on his hands was equally as tight.

Oh, he thought with clarity. She’s a little scared too.

That wasn’t going to stop either of them from doing this, of course. But he lifted his arms up so that it was easier for Mabel to hold on.

“You’re right.”

Her grin widened, looking more genuine. “Doi! I’m always right.”

They snickered together. Then Dipper tipped his head down to the Journal where it laid between their feet so it was still visible to read. It was upside-down for him, but that was fine, he read upside-down really well. He could tell by the way her hair fell from the corner of his eye that Mabel was mimicking him.

“Ready?”

“Mhm,” she hummed.

“Okay. Go.”

They took matching deep breaths and began to recite.

“Volumus nitidis astra supernis;

Nos inter mare nigrum vocamus;

Deprecamur lacte lunae.”

Without meaning to or even noticing, Dipper’s eyes slipped closed. He could hear Mabel reciting clearly next to him, could feel her fingers squeezing his clammy palms, and that was all he needed. The Journal lay forgotten.

“O, superi numina! Imperator supra!

Est in hoc humili mundo malum,

Et pereamus ad mortem!”

Their voices both got louder, feeding into each other. Behind his eyelids, the warm light of their bedroom’s desk lantern receded away until he was seeing only darkness. He didn’t notice. His focus was on the feeling of the spell as he spoke it, the strange, faint press of cold.

He didn’t quite feel like he was standing on the floor anymore.

“Imperator, ad imaginem cosmi reficis!

Imperator omnium, cupimus te!”

Their voices both rose even further into a cry:

“AXOLOTL, AXOLOTL, AXOLOTL!

LTOLOXA, LTOLOXA, LTOLOXA!”

They opened their eyes in perfect sync as though they had been commanded to.

The first thing Dipper saw was Mabel’s face. Her hair floated around her head like they were underwater. Her eyes were wide and luminous and almost scared. She could feel it too, he knew—the perfect, vast emptiness around them. The lack of any sensation.

All he could feel was the way her fingers dug into his palms, the bump on her left ring finger from holding pencils and pens and markers, the nick on the side of her palm from a pair of dull scissors.

He turned his head. She did too.

The second thing Dipper saw was THE AXOLOTL.

THE AXOLOTL was colossal, bigger than anything Dipper had ever seen. Bigger than the Earth, than the Sun, than the whole galaxy. THE AXOLOTL was beyond anything. They floated in front of one of THE AXOLOTL’S huge dark eyes, eyes held all the size and power of a black hole itself. A thousand nebulae gleamed in that eye.

Dipper could almost feel something in his brain crack trying to understand what he was looking at. He clutched at Mabel’s hands like she was the harbor he was desperately trying to find amid the endless sea, and she clung right back.

Then, as the two of them stared out at THE AXOLOTL in pure mute awe, THE AXOLOTL looked back.

THE AXOLOTL shrank. From one moment to the next THE AXOLOTL was filling up all of reality, and then the riotous color of the stars and the inky black of space between them took up the place THE AXOLOTL once filled. THE AXOLOTL became the size of an Earth axolotl, swimming up to them with a placid smile on a pink face. Frills swayed in a non-existent breeze.

HELLO, CHILDREN.

THE AXOLOTL’S voice was not really a voice. Dipper found that he didn’t hear THE AXOLOTL speak so much he remembered THE AXOLOTL saying something, an old memory so faded it was a reproduction of a reproduction, communicating nothing of the voice’s quality or sound.

Even at a new size, THE AXOLOTL’S mere presence was almost too much. Dipper found his mouth glued shut.

Mabel managed to speak first, her voice weak and hollow in the vacuum of space as she dazedly muttered, “You’re… you’re adorable.”

In any other circumstance, Dipper would’ve laughed out of pure shock. He stared at THE AXOLOTL.

SO I AM.

Dipper’s mouth finally un-stuck itself. The thought that had been ringing in his head since his first look at THE AXOLOTL broke through.

“I’ve… we’ve met you before.”

The memory wasn’t there, more a hole in his head where something should be, but he knew it. He knew that it was a memory of THE AXOLOTL.

THE AXOLOTL’S head tilted.

I HAVE MET EVERYONE, AND EVERYONE HAS MET ME, MASON.

I AM THERE FOR THEIR BEGINNING, THEIR ENDING, AND THEIR MOMENTS OF TRANSFORMATION.

I KNOW YOU. I KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE BECOME.

WHAT YOU COULD HAVE BECOME. WHAT YOU MAY YET BECOME.

THE AXOLOTL swam closer to float in between their faces, in between their linked hands forming a circle. Infinitely deep black eyes peered down at their hands.

Dipper knew that it was those clasped hands—the circle, the endless loop, the cycle of return and movement—that had brought THE AXOLOTL to them more than anything else. He knew it like a baby knew what it meant to cry, like a seed knew what it meant to sprout.

I WILL GIVE YOU A GIFT: THE MAGIC OF THE GALAXIES.

YOU WILL HELP UNMAKE A BEING WHO DOES ONLY AS HE WOULD PLEASE.

Dipper could feel that this moment was ending. Just before, though, he remembered THE AXOLOTL saying one last thing. A parting remark, a careless promise.

I HAVE ALWAYS LIKED TWINS.

Dipper and Mabel fell. THE AXOLOTL passed from between their arms. They could only watch as THE AXOLOTL shrunk once more, this time due to the pink form receding away from them as their bodies rushed downwards. As much as downwards counted for anything in space.

The stars bloomed around them, light racing to be seen, to find and caress the edge of the universe. Thousands upon thousands, millions, billions, numbers beyond reach, all of them bright eternal eyes of THE AXOLOTL.

All of those stars watched them fall. Their light was racing towards them, arms reaching to catch.

Like the endless arc of a comet, Dipper and Mabel fell to Earth.

They woke up collapsed on the floor of their bedroom, still holding hands as they both righted themselves into a sitting position. A glow bounced off of the walls, filling the whole space. He could tell from the vivid red of his closed eyelids.

Dipper opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was Mabel’s face. Her hair was floating around her head like they were underwater. Her eyes were wide and luminous and burning a bright white. So was her hair.

Dipper opened his mouth and screamed in shock.

—

“This is your fault. This is your fucking fault, Sixer.”

Stan’s brother let out a groan in response, his face still pressed against the greasy tabletop of Greasy’s Diner. He was definitely getting syrup in his graying hair. The place lived up to its name. Stan would’ve laughed at him if he wasn’t too busy being pissed off.

“They were hidden,” Ford bemoaned.

“Not well enough!”

Ford tilted his head to glare at Stan with one eye. “They stayed hidden for thirty years straight, Stanley. I would call that a good record.”

“And now one of them isn’t hidden,” Stan said, thoroughly unimpressed. He shoved his plate of eggs and bacon aside to lean over the table and prod Ford in the temple with his fork. “You are so, so fucking lucky they didn’t find the one with the ritual for Bill instead.”

Stan got to watch Ford pale as the reality of that risk occurred to him in real time. He prodded at him with the fork some more just to add to his twin’s misery. It was deserved misery.

Ford eventually straightened back up, smacking Stan’s hand away. He turned to look at the source of their hushed argument with a grimace.

A newspaper, the front page dedicated to the two newest heroes on the block: a pair of young twins with star power. There was a large, impressively clear picture of the pair before the article.

Stan and Ford had recognized them instantly.

Sure, the glowing white hair and eyes made them look a little different, and the flashy outfits drew the eye away from the face, but those faces were completely uncovered. Of course they recognized their own niece and nephew.

There was only one way for the kids to get cosmic power from what Stan and Ford knew of. Ford’s own Journals, the third of which contained a ritual to call upon the stars for power.

Ford hadn’t made it work; he was already bound to an interdimensional being when he tried it. That was the theory he gave Stan when mentioning his attempt once, at least.

But Dipper and Mabel…

Stan told his brother, “Once we have a plan and we’re out of the public eye, I’m kicking your ass.”

Ford sighed. “I’ll deserve it. But I won’t go down without a fight.”

They finished their food. It was quicker than attempting to flag Susan down to get them a pair of to-go boxes, and Stan refused to let them pay for the food and then leave it behind. He might’ve been a supremely rich criminal now, but he wasn’t going to pay for shit he wasn’t going to eat.

Leaving a tip at Ford’s insistence��chronic goody-two-shoes—they made their way back to Stan’s El Diablo where they could actually talk openly.

“We most likely can’t outright remove their magic,” Ford said, tipping his head back against the headrest. “If the magical being gave them their power, it wants them to have it. And trying to convince a god to take back their decision is…risky, at best.”

“And trying to ban them from going out and taking names won’t work either,” Stan grouched.

The kids were Pines—they already couldn’t be stopped from doing what they wanted in the first place. The second eyes weren’t on them, Dipper and Mabel could vanish from thin air and return in thirty minutes having gotten into a fist-fight with gnomes or video game characters come to life or other such fantastical issues that plagued the area.

And now those kids had magical powers. What little capacity Stan and Ford had to corral them had shrunk even further. The only ways Stan could imagine stopping the younger twins involved essentially imprisoning them and ruining their trust in him and Ford forever.

He rode the tail of the car in front of him just to make himself feel better. The driver rolled down her window and flipped him the bird, which did get a laugh out of him.

Ford was too busy massaging his temples to scold him. “No, it won’t. They’ll be worse than us at twelve.”

A terrifying notion. They had been absolute hellions at twelve, all without fancy new magical powers.

Stan drummed his fingers on the wheel, his mind turning over every possibility. He knew the scene and he knew those kids. Give them a week and they’d be going up against the biggest assholes on the block just because they couldn’t help but stick their noses into everything.

If only they could learn on some easy targets, someone who wouldn’t really hurt them… but Stan couldn’t trust anyone to do that, now could he?

Anyone except—

“Hey, Ford,” he said slowly. “If we can’t stop them, we’ve gotta prepare them. How ‘bout we give them a practice round? Some two-bit villain to fight against and learn the ropes on?”

Ford picked up his head from his hands. “And who exactly do you suggest—”

He stopped and sighed, and Stan knew they were on the same page.

“I think it’s time for the Piranha to start swimming his old waters again,” Stan said, grinning. “And maybe Six-Shooter can show up out of the woodwork too, since one of his old heels is back in action. Maybe give some tips to the new heroes.”

He waited for Ford to shoot the idea down immediately.

Ford only looked out the windshield with a thoughtful frown tugging at his lips. “...I think that might be our best option at the moment. We could keep tabs on them like that—but we’re going to have to work double-time to keep all of this from them both in and out of the masks.”

Stan shrugged. “Eh, we’ve managed it so far. Can’t be too hard.”

He would come to regret those words. But for now, he believed them.

#gravity falls #gravity falls au #my writing #SUPES AU SUPES AU SUPES AU #if you see any mistakes in this no you dont <3 #might add this to ao3 later

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intersexbookclub · 4 months ago

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A lot of thoughts about Cripping Intersex

On 2024-09-29 we met to talk about Chapters 0 and 7-9 of the 2022 book Cripping Intersex by Celeste Orr. This was a book that numerous people had requested we read, and we wound up with deeply mixed feelings about it. 😬

Overall reactions:

Michelle: I found the concept of “hauntology” incredibly compelling. I’m here for some shitposting. 🍵

Apollo: I loved the concept of compulsory dyadism. I found the downplaying of “perisex” as a term to be weird, and the lack of divulging intersex/disability status was weird.

Elizabeth: the lack of diverging intersex/disability status wasn’t just weird, it was anathema to standpoint theory, and so every time Orr cited standpoint theorists, it made me seriously doubt Orr’s understanding of the theoretical basis that they actively chose to use 🧐. I was disappointed by this book. I agree with its central premise, so I should have been an easy sell. Instead I came out shaking, upset, feeling like Orr was a voyeur to our community, that Orr does not actually view intersex studies as a serious research area, that we’re just a theoretical fascination.

Remy: There were a lot of good points about how disability is socially constructed, but how Orr used “bodymind” detracted from their arguments for me. This book had a lot of uncomfortable conversations, some of them I was happy to read, some I need to come to terms with myself, while others I felt were treated a little too artificially equally such as the section with the phrase "the future is female" and the intersex community being involved in the queer community. 🤔

Bnuuy: it's really jarring how they approach the topic. There are a lot of pieces for a good theory here, but it’s kinda like Orr is just like the completely wrong person to go try to assemble them 🫤

As a collective, we generally were receptive (if not enthused!) about the central message that intersex benefits from disability studies/rights/justice perspectives, and that our community would benefit from more interaction with the disability studies/rights/justice communities! 💜

At the same time, we all agreed that Orr felt like a voyeur to our community. Rather than engaging with the intersex community, they seem to have a one-sided relationship where they read a bunch of things by intersex people but never actually conversed with intersex people. Whether Orr is intersex or not matters a whole lot less to us than whether Orr is actively participating in the community.

We made a lot of (unflattering) comparisons of Orr’s book to Envisioning African Intersex by Swarr, an intersex studies book by a perisex author. The latter is a great example of how a perisex scholar can do right by the intersex community: Swarr is clear about being perisex, clearly lays out her motivation for writing the book (she saw medical photography of intersex people, thought it was fucked up, later became friends with intersex activist Sally Gross, and then wanted to honour Gross’ memory after Gross died tragically.) Swarr was clearly connected to multiple African intersex organizations and made an explicit, deliberate choice to publish her book as open access so that the work could actually be read by the African activists she has been working with. Swarr’s perisex status matters a lot less than the fact that Swarr writes in a way that demonstrates personal investment in advancing intersex rights/justice.

Orr may or may nor be intersex. We don’t know. We don’t really care, because Orr doesn’t demonstrate personal investment in the intersex rights/justice/studies communities. That’s what actually matters to us, and it's what a lot of this post is going to talk about.

Underneath the cut we're going to go into a lot more detail about the book. There were things we liked about the book, and want to be fair in our assessment. Some of the complaints we had about the book hinge on an understanding of sociological theory and academic practices, so we'll give some context on those issues.

What we liked

This book had a bunch of things going for it.

The one thing this book did better than Swarr was its use of hauntology. Swarr invokes hauntology in her book, but not nearly as effectively as Orr does. Orr gets a lot of effective mileage out of how the spectre of intersex haunts people’s bodies. Not just intersex people’s bodies, but also the bodies of pregnant people who are called upon to exorcise the spectre of intersex through selective abortion should a foetus be identified as possibly intersex.

The haunting metaphor rung true for talking about how we intersex people are haunted by past surgeries, forced treatments, medical trauma, and so on. Even when we’re “done” with receiving gender-altering “treatments” we live with their ghosts every day.

We liked the explicit connections that Orr drew between intersex and disability studies. Elizabeth in particular was warmed by the shoutout to how Garland-Thompson explicitly includes intersex in her disability studies work. We felt that Orr perhaps underestimates how receptive many intersex people would be to their central argument - Orr takes on a tone of “hey bear with my crazy radical argument” that we weren’t sure was really necessary.

Orr is not the first to make the argument that intersex organizing and scholarship would benefit from more alignment with the disability world. This gets into criticisms, but Orr isn’t the first to make this argument yet seems unaware of how regularly the argument comes up. Indeed there’s a whole chapter in Critical Intersex (2009) arguing that intersex is better off allying with the disability community than the queer community. It’s not hard to find intersex people on this very website arguing similar things. Intersex-support even has a whole section on it in their FAQ, though it does cite Orr (lol). Orr does at least seem aware of Koyama’s work making this argument.

We appreciated Orr calling out ableism in a lot of intersex organizing. When intersex people and organizations insist that intersex is NOT a disorder or disability, they conflate disorder and disability. This is an ableist conflation: disability activism tends to start from a place of resistance to the medical model of disability, whether it be by the social model or more recent ones like the political/relational model.

Intersex activists insisting that intersex is “NOT a disability” reinforce the idea that disability is a negative, tragic thing. It’s the “I’m not like the other girls” rhetoric: putting down people who experience the same oppression you do in an effort to gain some credibility. It holds our movement back, because ableism is a very potent part of how we intersex people are oppressed. Orr does an effective job of laying this out, and we recommend reading the first chapter for this.

Orr coins a term, temporarily endosex, to talk about how people can learn at any age or time that they have had intersex traits all along. (Another way in which intersex can haunt!). For Elizabeth, the idea of temporarily perisex helped zer understand why perisex people can be *so* insistent in defining intersex as something visible at birth: because if intersex is something you can become at any age, this threatens perisex people with the possibility that they too could find themselves on the minority side of the tracks.

Other terms that Orr uses were big hits with the group. Elizabeth loved “curative violence” and ze expects to get future mileage out of the term. Ze also liked the framing of IGM as medical malpractice. Apollo praised “compulsory dyadism” as a concept. Remy shared that the cyborg stuff in the book gave them a lot to think about.

The book features a takedown of eugenicist rhetoric by a bioethicist by the name of Sparrow. We all agreed that Sparrow’s arguments sucked, were grossly eugenicist, and welcomed that Orr had put in the work to rebut his hateful messaging. Michelle praised how they invoked Sparrow’s lists of undesirables that Preimplantation Genetic Diagnosis is supposed to prevent: for xem, it evoked monstrosity identification theory and ideas of the abject.

Elizabeth liked Orr’s argument that genital differences are a threat to the heterosexual (perisex) imagination: there’s so much porn out there that incorrectly presents intersex as “typical fully-developed penis plus typical fully-developed vagina” that really reflects how perisex people have a serious lack of imagination about genitals.

Fact Checking

There are a number of things that Orr says that we felt warrant an explicit fact check.

Orr presents the terms “perisex” and “endosex” as though they are contentious within the intersex community. They are not. The general consensus that one’s choice of perisex/endosex/dyadic is a question of personal preference and familiarity.

Orr clearly prefers the term dyadic, and makes a show of casting aspersions on “perisex” and “endosex”. They make it seem like their origins are disputed, and selectively cite Tumblr posts to make this argument. “Perisex” is actually the most common antonym to intersex on this very website, so it feels surreal that they're publishing the rare anti-“perisex” posts on this platform. Orr does correctly cite the Tumblr which coined “perisex”, the issue is they try to discredit it as a means to make it seem like this is not a term embraced by the intersex community.

Orr makes it seem like the origin of “endosex” is a suspicious mystery. It’s not. the term was first used in German in 2000 by Heike Bödeker. Bödeker is controversial for supporting autogynephilia 😬, but we've never seen anybody doubt Bödeker having mixed gonadal dysgenesis.

Orr clearly prefers the term “dyadic” and makes zero attempt to source the term, and the most minimal attempt at covering its controversy. This term actually does come from outside the intersex community! The term came from gender studies, popularized by 1970s radfem Shulamith Firestone. And it’s controversial for more than just being a laundering of “sex binary”.

Nobody calls it “ipso gender” anymore. It was coined as “ipso gender” but in actual usage has been “ipsogender” from basically as soon as the term was coined.

Orr uncritically repeats a quote which romanticizes home births in Black & Indigenous communities as that intersex-at-birth babies were accepted and cared for in a way that wouldn’t happen if the baby were born in hospital. This, sadly, is deserves scrutiny. We’re not saying it never happened: one can find stories supporting it. But the historical and sociological evidence show that infanticide of intersex infants has been widespread globally, and this includes traditional Black and Indigenous birth attendants. Collison (2018) as quoted in Swarr, reports that 88 of 90 traditional South African birth attendants they interviewed admitted to “getting rid” of a child if it was born intersex. That very story we just linked to about a Kenyan midwife saving intersex babies made the news because infanticide was the norm. In North America, some First Nations had similar traditions, e.g. the Navajo would leave intersex babies to die in arroyos, and the Halq’eméylem would leave them to die on a specific mountain. 😢

Michelle was visibly upset when talking about Orr’s repeated comments which insinuate that LGBT marriage equality was an attempt to fit in + liberalism + conformity. In Michelle’s words: “AIDS activists did not watch their lovers die for you to say that marriage equality is conformist bullshit. As a [polyamorous] person who is not legally married to xer spouses, I really felt that one, and I was intensely angry about how Orr was dismissing those activist efforts and the importance of them.”

The Voyeuristic Vibes

The consensus in the group was that Orr’s writing came off as voyeuristic of the intersex community. There were several points in the book where Orr seemed strangely disconnected from the intersex community. Sometimes it was small things, like spelling ipsogender as “ipso gender”, or favouring the term “interphobia” when “intersexism” is actually more popular in the community (it also avoids the potential casual ableism of framing bigots as clinically insane! Which you’d think a crip theorist would be sensitive to…. 👀)

Other times, it felt like a deeper, conceptual thing. For example, Orr’s top priority in future work was to apply their interpretation of intersex issues to critique how LGBT marriage equality was a homonormative, neoliberal, conformist movement. Not only was this viscerally upsetting to Michelle, for Elizabeth it was galling that this is what Orr seems to think intersex perspectives are good for: pushing down other queer groups. 😬 It added to the sense that Orr saw us as a nifty theoretical lens, and wasn’t particularly interested in advancing the intersex cause.

Another disconnection that was noted was in how Orr rebutted Sparrow’s claims that genital differences are disgusting and will not elicit sexual desire in others. Despite detailed rebuttals to other appalling comments from Sparrow, Orr does not bring up the intense fetishization of intersex genital differences which is uncomfortably familiar to all of us. Objectifying medical photography of intersex people with genital differences are shared widely and known to be used for sexual purposes.

Bnuuy was annoyed that Orr seemingly didn't try to talk to or otherwise get input/feedback from any disabled intersex people for their thesis, given that disabled intersex people are not actually that hard to find! (Indeed, four out of five of us are both intersex and disabled.) Given Orr’s emphasis on intersectionality, it’s notable that when they sought intersex texts to analyse, they focused on texts from nondisabled intersex folks.

Orr does not reveal if they are intersex nor if they are disabled. It sticks out. Whether they’re actually intersex or not isn't actually that important to us. We’ve previously read intersex studies works by perisex authors which we loved, and we believe strongly that it is possible for perisex authors to do right by the community if they take the time to engage WITH the community. (See Swarr as an exemplar!)

What we had major problem with is the faux “objective” tone that the book takes on. Orr seems to be trying to hide behind academic language, the “view from nowhere”, and an expensive paywall. This was noticeable to everybody. But Elizabeth, as the only academic in the call, came in with a lot more context as to why it felt gross.

The Misuse of Standpoint Theory

For Elizabeth, Orr's “view from nowhere” became egregious when Orr cites standpoint theorists like Donna Haraway, Nancy Hartstock, and Pat Hill Collins. In a surreal move, Orr explicitly points to Haraway’s famous paper “Situated Knowledges: The Science Question in Feminism and the Privilege of Partial Perspective”. This paper is an evisceration of the “view from nowhere”, “objective” approach to academic knowledge production. Every view is a view from somewhere, and pretending otherwise feeds into the history of how science has been violently used to gaslight and oppress minority groups.

In short, Haraway says:

Elizabeth explains that as result, feminist methodologies accept subjectivity as part of the process: the researcher is expected to articulate their own standpoint, to be transparent about their subjectivity rather than to hide it behind a pretense of “objectivity”. There’s an emphasis on reflexivity, the fancy word for when scholars reflect on how their own social position affects how they do their research.

Feminist disability studies and crip theory both build on feminist standpoint theory, and Orr claims to be using both. Both frameworks understand disability as socially constructed, and that this social construction is entwined with other social forces such as capitalism, sexism, racism, and so on. Feminist disability studies scholars like Wendell (who Orr cites) clearly position themselves and how their disability (or lack thereof) affects their research.

Crip theory builds further on feminist disability studies, and acts to subvert ideas of ability. It began in the arts - cripping performance art by having wheelchair users perform as dancers, blind people doing photography, Deaf people making music, etc. It spread into other domains, such as crip technoscience. Crip theorists also inherit the tradition of reflexivity, whether it be Eli Claire writing about their personal experiences of disability or Sami Schalk talking about how being nondisabled affects her work as a disability studies scholar.

We provide all this exposition to emphasize how unusual it is that Orr provides absolutely zero information about their positionality nor their personal motivations to this research. 🧐 They provide zero reflexivity as to how their position may have affected their work. Yet their personal biases and subjectivity seemed obvious to us - we were all, in varying ways, set off by Orr trying to pass off subjective opinion as “correct”. As an example, we mentioned how Orr clearly prefers the term “dyadic” and manufactures controversy about the origins of “endosex” and “perisex”, while at the same time conveniently leaving out the unsavoury origins of the term “dyadic”.

Elizabeth pointed out that the ironic thing is Orr didn’t even need to invoke standpoint theory to make the argument that intersex studies would benefit from a disability studies lens. Plenty of intersex and disability studies is done using different frameworks.

Indeed, Elizabeth was surprised that this kind of error made it through a PhD thesis defense. In the department where ze teaches, if a student displays a major misunderstanding about their chosen theoretical framework, the student would be asked to redo the relevant thesis checkpoints (e.g. candidacy paper, thesis proposal/defense) until they get it right.

Some background on academia

Elizabeth brought up a structural problem with the book: it looks like it had zero intersex studies scholars review it prior to publication. 💀

This book originated as a PhD dissertation, which anybody can read for free here. A typical PhD programme is structured as a master-apprentice model of education, where a PhD student apprentices to one (sometimes two) professors. These are known as thesis advisors. The culmination of the PhD is a thesis (aka dissertation), which presents original research done by the student.

To graduate, the thesis needs to pass examination by a committee of professors. The committee acts as a secondary source of support to the student, providing guidance or perspectives to complement the advisors.

Elizabeth explained that when ze assembles a thesis committee for one of zer graduate students, the goal is to ensure any area that the student is venturing into has at least one committee member who is well versed in it. So, let’s say you propose you’re going to do a thesis on “intersex studies meets disability studies” but your thesis advisors are both gender studies people (as Orr’s were). Elizabeth would expect that Orr’s thesis committee would then include at least one disability studies scholar and at least one intersex studies scholar.

Instead, Orr’s thesis committee doesn’t have a single intersex studies scholar on it. Neither the book’s acknowledgements nor the thesis’ acknowledgments acknowledge any intersex studies scholars. Even though Orr is citing intersex studies scholars like Georgiann Davis, Morgan Holmes, and Cary Gabriel Costello, there's nothing to indicate that Orr has ever gotten feedback from any intersex people. This is HIGHLY unusual: normally, intersex studies books have acknowledgments which acknowledge several publicly intersex people, and often one or two intersex organizations.

Research is a highly social activity: researchers are expected to go to conferences, to be in conversation with people working on similar topics. And Orr is clearly social about their research, acknowledging the feminist/gender studies communities they have been a part of. It just seems like intersex studies scholars weren’t a priority for Orr’s academic socializing. 🙃

Orr’s acknowledgments doesn’t even contain the word intersex, which is unprecedented in our collective experience of intersex non-fiction. This is why Elizabeth says that ze was left with the impression that Orr doesn’t think intersex studies is a serious field of research. It appears that Orr views intersex literature as something to be consumed for their benefit, and not a community worthy of participation and a bi-directional relationship.

Early in the book, Orr points to Lennard Davis’ work with the Deaf community on reframing Deaf activism away from the “we’re not disabled we’re a linguistic minority” rhetoric. It’s a great example of disability studies scholars having an impact. Thing is: Davis openly talks about how he grew up in a Deaf family that was part of the Deaf Community. While Davis is not little-d deaf, he took on the project as a member of the capital-D Deaf community. His writing (including book acknowledgments) reflect this.

Elizabeth also pointed out that there are scripts and precedent in academia for how to handle positionality and reflexivity when you’re questioning or closeted. If Orr were closeted or questioning, they would have an excellent way to talk discreetly about it through their very own concept of “temporarily endosex”: Orr could write they don’t know they’re not perisex, frame it around how few perisex people actually know they’re perisex, and retain plausible deniability.

Other notes

Bnuuy was frustrated with the implication that disability studies is The Only Right Way to analyse intersex. It’s a useful lens for understanding intersex, but at times it felt like Orr was arguing it was the only appropriate lens rather than one of a collection of suitable lenses. Theories are analytic tools, and social phenomena are complex and fluid - it’s a matter of finding a suitable tool for a given research question, rather than there being One Correct Way to understand things.

Orr’s use of “bodymind” didn’t quite land. The term was created by Margaret Price to subvert the idea that body and mind are dichotomous: many disabilities cannot neatly fit into “mental” vs “physical”. It’s a term that’s had productive use in disability studies. But Orr’s use of it got a negative reaction. Remy pointed out it felt like it instead it actually reinforced the body-mind distinction. Intersex is, after all, a physical thing, and the idea of “brain intersex” is very poorly received by the intersex community - it’s seen as a way that perisex trans people appropriate intersex and/or live in denial about being perisex. It felt like Orr was using the word on autopilot rather than thinking about when and where it is actually subversive.

Bnuuy was concerned that Orr was reading OII Australia’s information on intersex in bad faith. Orr criticizes them for discursively distancing intersex from disability. Bnuuy points out that OII Australia is not writing for an academic (disability studies) scholarship. This is an advocacy organization speaking to a general audience that understands disability through the medical model. Bnuuy read the quotes from OII Australia as them just distancing themselves from a medicalized understanding of disability.

Elizabeth brought up that Orr’s manufactured controversy of “perisex” may have a classist element. While endo- does make sense as an antonym to inter- if one has formal science background, the term peri- is not conventionally an antonym to inter-. Elizabeth has personally noticed a resistance from zer fellow academics to perisex on the grounds that it’s “using scientific terminology incorrectly”, and thinks that’s a classist take.

Michelle brought up that “it also didn't sit great with me that they [Orr] were very condescending about Tumblr like, ‘aww, look at the baby activists trying to do a scholarship," whereas what I'd describe as ‘folk scholarship’ on Tumblr has been very valuable to me. It's not always correct and there can be misinformation, but it has worth.” Remy was unimpressed with how limited/selective Orr’s engagement seemed to be with intersex Tumblr, as well as Orr’s centrist take on “the future is female”.

Closing thoughts

This was a deeply imperfect piece of scholarship. Orr came across as disconnected from the intersex community, and uninterested in working with the community. The work still has some merits: Orr’s first chapter provides an incisive discussion of how ableism is detrimental to intersex advocacy and that trying to distance intersex from disability only adds to societal ableism. Ableism is a serious force in intersex discrimination and we’re stronger off understanding this and explicitly resisting it.

We hope that the stink of Orr’s voyeurism does not sully the important central message of their book. Work needs to be done to teach more intersex people about disability studies. Disability does not mean disorder. Disability does NOT mean medical problem. The disability rights and justice movements are FULL of disabled groups who, just like the intersex community, are actively seeking de-pathologization, bodily autonomy, patient-led care by respectful and well-informed physicians, and fighting neo-eugenics. We are in good company with groups like the Deaf, neurodiversity, and little people communities.

#oh also reminder: we're meeting on Friday to talk about Wicked!#intersex book club #intersex books #intersex #actually intersex #intersex studies #queer theory #crip theory #standpoint theory #disability studies #academia #crip #book reviews #book review #book summaries

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ohmybueckers · 4 months ago

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Never Strangers: Chapter Three

Word Count: 4.3K

Warnings: binge drinking, I think that’s it???

Authors Note: heyyyyy guys. Sorry this chapter took a hot second to come out and sorry it’s a lot more filler than other chapters - a LOT more was supposed to happen in this one, but I realized I could cut them into two and get this one posted faster. Which means 1. chapter four will come out a lot quicker than this one did and 2. it will be a lot more exciting than this one (based on the ending you can see why). anyways xoxo enjoy!

“No fucking way!”

Brooke braced herself on our kitchen counter, examined my phone like she had never seen one before. I was very aware of the fact my behead was still intact and I hadn’t even washed my face this morning, but I knew Brooke would classify this as an emergency that needed attending to ASAP.

“There’s no way,” I groan, wondering how my mission of avoiding Paige and all feelings associated with her at all cost had blown up in my face less than twenty four hours after getting here. “How does she even know?”

Brooke looked equally puzzled, her perfectly shaped eyebrows furrowing before her posture straightened comically fast like a puppet. She shouted, “Adria!”

I was still confused, now even more so. “What?”

“Her story from last night must have gotten to KK, which somehow made it to Paige.”

In recent years I have become what my friends have lovingly referred to as “chronically offline” - it had to have at least been 2 days since I had opened Instagram, and I certainly didn’t follow the younger girl last night. Safe to say I had zero clue what she was referring to. “What story?”

Brooke grabbed her phone from the kitchen countertop, typing quickly before shoving her phone back in my face. Sure enough, Brooke and I were the stars of the story, both holding our glasses and wearing big smiles (certainly a symptom of the cheap wine). How Adria managed to find my account to tag me, I was not sure. All I knew is that Paige most likely saw it, and that a shameful part of me was at least a little happy that I looked good in the photo.

There was certainly no erasing Paige’s memory, so this text was mine to tackle. “Alright, how do I even respond to this?”

From the way Brooke looked at me, you would think I just suggested transferring again. “Respond? You’re kidding, right?”

I shrug, not exactly enthused by the idea of interacting with Paige on my first full day, but not enjoying the alternative either. “I mean, she knows now. It’s kinda rude to not say anything, isn’t it?”

“What’s rude is talking to a girl as if she’s your girlfriend, treating her like your girlfriend, and then disappearing out of nowhere and lying to her about it. You know exactly why she’s trying to hit you up again,” Brooke grabs my shoulder with care, a gesture I leaned into, “If she thinks you’re easy enough to let her in again, you gotta show her she’s dead wrong.”

My mind felt like it was destroying itself trying to figure out the truth. Part of me wanted to listen to Brooke, who had never once led me astray in her advice and had enough experience with fuck boys to know how they tick - even if the fuckboy in question was actually a girl. Everything she was saying matched the image I had built up about Paige in my head for years.

Once my heartbreak molded into anger, it became a hell of a lot easier to get over Paige, at least enough to date other people at Minnesota. Anger became comfortable for me - except the occasional nights I spent alone in my dorm, looking back at old photos I couldn’t bring myself to delete permanently from my ICloud. Nights where I wondered if I actually had it all wrong, and if somehow I let myself get too comfortable hating Paige to consider any alternative to what was my truth. Was it pathetic to hold on to a grudge from over three years ago? I really didn’t know sometimes.

I shut my phone off, reassuring Brooke that I was not going to fall back into Paige, which she seemed to accept fairly easily. Brooke ultimately just wants what’s best for me, and the last thing I wanted was for her to spend her last year at UConn worried about me. She had the LSAT to focus on, not my situation with my ex.

Which is why I conveniently forgot to inform her when I decided to respond to Paige that night, waiting until the sun had set and nearly twenty four hours had passed before sending a simple “yes”, throwing my phone on my bed and taking a long shower before I could decide I made a grave mistake.

———-

The first day of classes came quick, which I was thankful for - there’s only so much time a girl can spend in her poorly air conditioned apartment, and it’s not like Storrs had that much going on when school was not in session. What I was not thankful for was my packed Monday schedule, starting with an 8am economics lecture that I wouldn’t have taken if it wasn’t the last one available to satisfy a requirement, and ending with general chemistry (again, would not take if I didn’t need to squeeze a science credit in).

If my 3 alarms weren’t enough to wake me up, I could rely on the sun blazing through my apartment at 5:30AM. After making a mental note to finally order some curtains, my full morning routine commenced, the one I saved for special occasions (or for when I simply could not fall back asleep): 20 minutes of pilates, followed by a citrus scented shower, a full makeup routine, and styling my nearly black hair in loose curls.

By 7:30 I was ready to begin my walk to the business school, smoothing out my floral sundress and hoping it would instill some confidence in me. I would probably lean back into wearing jeans within the next week, but I still had some belief in my mom’s insistence that dressing well on any first day or impression mattered. I guess it did make me feel pretty, in a “belongs more on a Hollister catalogue than a college campus” kinda way. The dress did not fix the way my my first day nerves seemed to wreak havoc on my body, causing me to barely shove a protein bar down my throat before my body decided that was all the breakfast it could handle.

If I were still in Minnesota, my walk to classes would have been a whole lot louder. It was not often I had a commute where I didn’t curse the incompetence of Minnesota drivers. This was not the case in Storrs, partially because there were no drivers. Aside from the shuttle that passed me as I turned onto Alumni Drive, the only sound to accompany me was Beyoncé serenading me through my headphones. While Minnesota was simply a college with a large city unrelated to it, it was evident that Storrs would be almost nonexistent without UConn - if Minnesota was a city school, this felt almost like summer camp in comparison.

I didn’t know exactly what to make of it yet, but I promised myself I would keep an open mind. I had to. There was no turning back now.

———-

The day ended up being just as exhausting as I anticipated, potentially even more so. I’m used to liking first days. The idea of a new start each semester usually feels exciting, but this time I may have bit off more than I can chew. Syllabus week at Minnesota was a breeze, my calendar filled with classes where we just went over standard course expectations followed by frat parties I pretended to have interest in. The second my economics professor began lecturing after covering the syllabus for a measly 10 minutes, I knew he did not roll that way.

I genuinely have no idea how I made it through my high school schedule every day: multiple AP classes, followed by an afternoon job tutoring middle schoolers, with mock trial practice shortly after. It’s a miracle I found time to actually have a social life. Clearly my stamina had depleted severely, as by the time I stepped into my history discussion (seriously, who holds discussion when there isn’t anything to discuss yet), I had already made an emergency stop for coffee and was contemplating whether it was possible to take a nap in my thirty minute passing period before my chemistry lecture.

I made quick stop in the bathroom to fix my mascara and ensure the concealer under my eyes wasn’t crumbling (it was). Leave it to a hot September day and a bathroom with yellow tinted lighting to deplete my confidence: my once voluminous curls fell flat to my face, frizz accumulating at the roots. My concealer which had been matched to fit my warm skin tone now made me appear sallow, and my eyes were not fooling anyone - I was truly, undoubtedly tired. Not much I could do at this point other than use a generous amount of travel size dry shampoo, wipe the remnants of my mascara from under my eyes, and hope that the lighting in my discussion wasn’t as harsh.

I stepped into the classroom and was quickly overwhelmed by the size of it - not because it was too big, but because it was intimately tiny. I had been comfortable in my two previous classes, the large lecture halls allowing me to fade a little into anonymity - just another body struggling to stay awake as my professor explains the importance of studying economic law in the most monotonous tone possible. Looking at the long fake wood table and the twelve chairs, four of which were filled, I realized my streak of avoiding introductions had ended.

After a quick scan, I chose to set my stuff down next to the person who scared me the least: a tall girl with pin straight long black hair, dressed in black baggy cargo pants and an oversized SZA shirt, complete with silver rings on her fingers which were currently in use scrolling her laptop. I offered a customary closed mouth smile as I sat down and set my book bag down on the table.

There was a short pause where the only sound to hit my ears was the hum of the far too harsh overhead lighting as I took out my laptop, before I heard a deep voice ask, “long day, huh?”

As I turned to face the girl and processed her statement, it was evident that my attempt at looking put together was no longer working, especially now that the humidity had done a number on my hair. To be fair, I did feel like I was about to crash. “Tell me about it,” I replied, face flushed. I began to wonder if I should have sat next to the frat boy who was scrolling on UConn’s barstool account instead.

Maybe she took pity on how embarrassed I looked, because the smirk was erased from her tanned face and was replaced by a look of sympathy. “Hey, I don’t blame you. My 8AM econ lecture was brutal.”

The gears turned in my brain before I realized just what she had said. “Wait, which econ class?” After the taller girl recited a number from the schedule on her lock screen, I grinned. “We’re in the same lecture!”

“I cannot believe he would teach that much content on the first day.” She rolled her brown eyes, “Ok, let me guess. History and economics classes, leather planner… you’re pre-law, aren’t you?”

I mean, she technically wasn’t completely wrong. “Yes?”

“Then why haven’t I seen you try out for mock trial?” She asked, a perfectly shaped brow raised high and the Colgate smile smirk returning to her face. Her voice was low and teasing - definitely the flirty personality type. I could recognize it all too well.

Not wanting to explain my long and complicated history with the organization, I settled for the easy answer. “I just transferred here.”

“Well, we’ll be at the org fair if you want to sign up for a tryout spot,” She smiled, “Just tell them that Alex sent you.”

“Going to take a wild guess here and assume you’re Alex,” I quipped, though I will admit the effort did bring a small smile to my face. “I’m Maya.”

“See! I can already tell you’re clever enough for us,” Alex joked, a ring clad hand bracing her head on the table as she stared at me. I noticed the way she scanned me, her eyes falling down to the v neck of my dress before tracing back up to my smile. I suddenly felt the need to smooth out the bottom of my dress against my legs, my hands feeling very sweaty.

Before I could respond, the TA announced the start of the period, and both of our heads turned to the front. The rest of discussion was spent typing notes on when my paper was due and what constitutes academic dishonesty, all while trying to ignore the way the girl next to me kept shooting looks my way.

————

The one benefit of my packed Monday/Wednesday schedule was that my weekend was essentially four days long. I had two classes on Thursday, both criminally early, but it meant that I was done by noon and ready to enjoy a few days with nothing on my agenda… at least once I finished all of my assignments my professors had mercilessly assigned on the first week.

A groan left my lips for what had to have been the third time in ten minutes as my eyes squinted to make out my general chemistry textbook. I had read the same paragraph around 5 times now, and each time I seemed to understand it less. Even though Adria invited me to study with her on the patio of her favorite coffee shop, I was sure she was about to tell me to leave. “I don’t know how I did AP Chem in high school, this is like a whole other language to me now.”

Adria laughed, looking up from her organic chemistry book (the contents of which I’m pretty sure would give me an aneurysm). “Not a STEM girl?”

“Definitely not a STEM girl,” I shook my head, unsure why the version of me who picked her schedule over the summer decided taking a notorious weed out course was a great idea. Taking a quick sip of my matcha, I added, “But I don’t know if I’m necessarily a law girl either. Been a real pain trying to figure it all out.”

“You will, I promise. Besides, I can always tutor you,” Adria reassured me softly, a gesture that would be a lot sweeter if there wasn’t a tiny voice in the back of my head nagging me for needing a pep talk from someone so much younger than me. If Adria can have everything figured out, why can’t I? “Enjoying UConn so far though?”

“Yeah, it’s been okay! I’ve met some nice people in my classes,” I think about how Alex quickly spotted me yesterday morning in lecture and gestured to have me sit with her and her mock trial friends. Turns out sitting through an 8AM lecture on law and economics was a lot easier when you had a friend next to you. “I think Brooke wants to go to bars this weekend though, and I just know the lines are going to be awful.”

Adria lit up at this. “There’s a party being thrown by members of the mens basketball team tomorrow - someone basically rented out Huskies. I got access to one over the summer and it was a ton of fun - you should come!”

My mouth opened, trying to form a response. On one hand, it’s not like I had any concrete plans yet, and staying in on the first weekend after classes just felt wrong. But the words basketball rung in my ears like an unwelcome echo. Brooke’s warning that Paige was everywhere on campus rung true already, already overhearing her name in conversations more times than I could count. Seeing her and possibly talking to her? That was a whole other ball game, one that I weren’t sure I was ready to play. It wasn’t even necessarily that I wasn’t over her yet, but rather that we hadn’t spoken beyond a couple of short text exchanges in years (the most recent of which Paige hadn’t even responded to). Running into her was bound to be awkward, and I was determined to avoid the discomfort.

“Oh Adria, I don’t know…”

Adria cut me off, her voice insistent and almost desperate. “Please come. Brooke usually ends up leaving with some guy and I don’t want to be alone. All of my other friends can’t come, they have to be dry for sorority rush.”

I scoffed, though there’s no bite as I joke, “So you’re saying I’m your last option?”

“I’m saying I saved the best for last,” Adria gave a sheepish shrug. “If it helps change your mind at all, the women’s team won’t be there. KK said they were all going to Ted’s.”

I knew that there was no point of basing my choices at UConn based on whether or not I could run into Paige, but I would be lying if I said the reassurance wasn’t helpful. “I guess I could be convinced.”

Adria clapped, her smile big enough that agreeing already felt like the correct decision. “You won’t regret it, I promise. Pregame at yours?”

————

If there’s one thing I learned after two years going to college in the midwest, it’s how to throw a damn good pregame.

I felt the bass of my music from my JBL speaker course through my body as I set a shot glass back down on the faux granite countertop, wincing as the cheap tequila flowed down my throat. Brooke, Adria, and Brooke’s friend Marley stared at me, a mix of both amazement and slight concern on their face. On nights out, I have been known to pregame heavy, especially nights where I don’t know most people there. For one, it means I spend less money, plus it gives me some much needed extroversion to make it through the night.

“Damn girl, I did not know you could drink like that,” Brooke whistled, sipping on her High Noon tenderly. Her and Marley had other plans for the night, some frat event. Brooke claimed the only reason she would be caught dead at a frat as a senior is because Marley’s boyfriend was the president and so they got special treatment, but I had my suspicions she might have a frat crush of her own.

I felt the buzz as the four of us left our apartment, Adria and I running to catch our bus in order to avoid the thirty minute walk. In my alcohol induced giddiness, I noted how the sky faded from a bright blue into a mosaic of purples, pinks and yellows as the sun set over the lush trees. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Adria’s phone face me as I gripped the pole, looking out the window of our bus with the amazement of a kid in a candy store. I had spent the past week unsure of what to make of Storrs, but it felt almost romanticized in this moment.

Unfortunately, the picturesque moment did not carry into Huskies, an establishment that was far more of a restaurant than a true bar. A tennis game played over the TV, paired with the speakers blasting Drake as we were surrounded by a sea of girls with bleach and tones and Princess Polly crop tops. The basketball players seemed almost allergic to mingling with their invitees: aside from one or two attempting to chat up one of the girls, they all stood at their own table sipping beers and looking like they would rather be anywhere else.

Adria ordered us drinks as I snagged us a table. Soon enough we stood side by side, sipping on Captain Morgan and Coke and a tequila sunrise respectively, unsure of what to make of what we were seeing. “It was a lot more exciting over the summer, I swear,” Adria looked apologetic, “Maybe it’s just one of those things where we have to get drunker?”

I was making a mental note to take two Tylenol before bed for the sake of my tomorrow morning self when a man’s voice emerged from the crowd.

“Adria, you made it!” A pale man with floppy brown hair and impossibly long legs emerged, grin on his face as he wrapped Adria in a side hug. She returned the hug and the smile while brushing a braid away from her face, though hers seemed more forced. She finally pulled away when he began rubbing her arm, her face lighting up upon making eye contact with me.

“This is my friend Maya, she just transferred here.”

He grinned, reaching a hand out to shake hers with a firm grip. “Hey, I’m Noah. You made a good choice!”

“He plays for the team, I think he might be a bit biased,” Adria remarks, earning her a shocked look from her friend who quickly turned his attention away from me and onto her.

“Me and some of the guys were going to play some darts, you wanna be my partner? I’m sure we can find a partner for Maya as well,” Noah gestures to me without turning his head, as though I am an afterthought. While it’s not like I’m dying to play drinking games with a group of NBA hopefuls, it wouldn’t hurt to at least act like I’m there.

Adria clearly did not want to play as well, as she stuttered out some half-assed excuse. “I think we’ll stay here! Don’t want to risk, um, losing this table.”

Losing this table? Looks like I also needed to make a note to teach Adria how to lie. It was beyond obvious that Noah wasn’t buying it, but I guess he was choosing not to be confrontational. With a cough, he replied. “Right, um, well I’ll catch up with you later tonight then!”

The second he was well out of earshot (not that far, considering the volume they were playing Passionfruit at), my interrogation began. “Who was that?”

Adria looked down at her drink, looking uncharacteristically unconfident. “That was my in to this bar. We met over the summer.”

I nodded, watching as Noah stopped to chat with a mix of guys and girls under the flashing blue and pink lights. “Well I’m pretty sure he wants to get with you.”

“Oh trust me, he’s tried.” Adria deadpanned, evoking a laugh from my glossed lips. “He’s still a good guy, and I like being his friend. But I’m not into him like that.”

“Is it KK?”

Adria bit her bottom lip, and for a moment I feared I had gone too far, like we weren’t quite at the point in our friendship where that wouldn’t be a sensitive subject. I was ready to retract my question when she spoke softly. “We’re not exclusive… at least I don’t think so. I haven’t been with anyone else, but who knows if she has.”

Man, Adria really liked this girl. Some part of me was thankful to give some advice to her for once, although it’s not like my history gives me the authority to give relationship advice. “Have you tried talking to her about it?”

“Absolutely not.” She shook her head, her eyes wide. “I’m way too scared to hear the answer.”

I felt a pang in my chest, relating to that feeling all too well. I’ve always had a tendency to protect my peace too hard, avoid asking questions to escape conflict - through the years, I’ve discovered it almost never ends well. “But do you think you might be hurting yourself more by not knowing?”

Adria took a pause, staring off as Noah and his friends began frat flicking to some song that did not warrant that at all. “I am not drunk enough to think about that right now.”

We both laughed, silently agreeing to down the remainder of our drinks at the same time. The ice had melted well with the remainder of my sunrise, dulling the burn of the tequila. This was probably a good thing - I’m pretty sure my tolerance was lowered over the summer, because I felt my body get warmer than anticipated despite the air conditioning working overtime. Adria set her drink down on the table, turning to me once more. From the glint in her eye, I knew she was about to return my line of questioning. “What about you? Are you looking to get set up, because I’m sure that’s the reason those guys invited all of us here in the first place.”

“First of all, I’m gay,” I began, examining the crowd in front of me. “I’ve been here like a week, haven’t really had the time to think about hooking up with anyone.”

“Well, what’s your type?”

I thought for a moment about my (limited) history. “Tall, athletic, nice eyes…”

“Paige.”

I rolled my eyes, though I would be lying if I said the blonde was not included in my thought process. “I mean it, I’m done with her.”

“No, no. Paige. Right over there.”

It felt like my heart plummeted to my ass, the effects of the alcohol consumed unable to keep me cold as a chill rushed through me. Before my brain could tell me not to look, my head snapped to the front. Two girls now stood at the front of the bar, talking to the male players. One girls laugh cut through the crowd, and I saw a small smile erupt in Adria. That must be KK. The girl next to her, hands shoved in the pockets of her cargo pants, didn’t even need to say or do anything. I could tell Paige Bueckers from any crowd.

---

taglist (open!): @paiges-1vur @unadulteratedcyclepaper

#uconn wbb #paige bueckers #uconn women’s basketball #paige bueckers fic #paige bueckers angst #paige bueckers fluff

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madameaug · 1 year ago

Text

BTS w/ Short Reader

Pairing: BTS x Black Fem Reader

Synopsis: Different moments with BTS having a short girlfriend

Request: @lelewright1234

A/N: Not edited just wanted to get it out. Will clean up later :)

Seokjin: Going to Dinner

One of the major perks of living in the city was being close to many diverse food cuisines. There was an Italian restaurant two blocks from your apartment, authentic Mexican food on the same block, and your favorite restaurant just ten minutes' walking distance away.

That was what you and Jin were currently doing. The fall breeze felt nice as you all engaged in small talk. The restaurant was a casual establishment. Not necessarily a hole in the wall, but it didn't require reservations either. Even during peak hours.

"I'm starving," you said dramatically. Your work was insane, and time just got away from you. Not even able to pick up something quickly from the nearby gas station. It was that type of day.

"Well, I just got paid, so feel free to splurge. I'm craving a juicy steak." Jin, equally enthused, rubbed his hands together. Jin had been working hard to put himself in the best position for a promotion. The industry was lucrative, but it was a dog-eat-dog world. He didn't have many 'friends' at his job. He did not see the need when he had his girlfriend, his best friend, anyway.

Taking a seat at the resteraunt, it was long before a friendly waiter greeted you all.

"Hi, welcome to Cheesecake Factory. I'm Ryan and I'll be your sever for the evening."

The waitor placed down the menus. "Can I get you started with something to drink?"

He tilted his head. "Oh my apologizes let me get you a kids menu." He rubbed the back of his head. He collected the menu in front of you so fast, you didn't have a chance to even correct him. Jin watched as you fixed your lip to correct the waiter. But he quickly shook his head no.

The waitor was moving amile a minute, and turned around going to go get a kids menu.

"I don't know if I should be offended or take it as a compliment." You jokingly posed the question.

"Take it as a compliment. Plus it's cheaper." Jin shrugged.

When the waiter came back, Jin accepted the miniature kid-sized menu.

"Okay, sorry about that. What can I get you to drink?"

Yoongi: Driving

"Good morning lovie." You cooed into the phone.

Yoongi groaned in response. Your warm greeting reminded that he agreed to pick you up from the airport. You traveled back home to your home country for a couple of weeks in the summer.

"I'm getting ready to get on my flight. I'll see you soon." You blew a kiss into the phone before hanging up. Yoongi was so delirious that he didn't even recall you hanging up. The eight-hour time difference was messing with him. He was already recovering from a long night before. He was one of those sleepers, where if you interrupted him, he couldn't go back to sleep after that.

But the warmth of the bed was working its magic. Yoongi, in one huff, flipped his pillow over. His body physically relaxed at the coolness. The satin pillowcases were a nice little touch that you added to the bedroom. They protected your natural hair in the event that your scarf slid off at night.

Soaking in the couple more hours of sleep that he got. Yoongi rolled out of bed, grabbing his keys. He shuffled slowly to his car. He slid one foot in the car, and groaned in pain as he hit his knee on the steering wheel.

Amid the pain and waking up, Yoongi looked at the driver seat.

"Why is it so far up?" He leaned down, sliding the chair at an appropriate distance for his legs. Finally getting in the car, he saw that all the car settings were off. His side mirrors turned in a lot more, and his rear view mirror was practically looking down into the back seat.

He smacked his lips, realizing the only person capable of adjusting his car settings was you, his girlfriend. You did some last-minute shopping before flying out all those weeks ago. You must have taken Yoongi's car.

He checked your location and saw that you were now twenty miles from the airport. Starting the car, hearing the engine purr. Yoongi felt his seat moving closer and closer to the steering wheel. Despite pressing the button, the car kept moving up the previous location. Yoongi's knees were damn near on top of the steering wheel.

Instead of responding grumpily, he laughed. "Shorty."

Hoseok: Clubbing

Finally, you and Hoseok reached the front of the club. Star Lounge had recently opened. You loved hitting the scene. Always being in the know. Hosoek your boyfriend was accompanying you. Thinking of your safety, a woman going to the club by herself- wasn't gonna happen on his watch. So he got dressed and met you at the line.

So after waiting nearly forty minutes in line you were rightfully upset when the security guard told you 'no.'

"What do you mean no."

"Read the sign lady." His head nodded to the sign in bold print beside him.

21+ club

"Yeah, I'm older than 21. Look at my ID." You did your best to keep calm. You are used to people thinking you are younger due to your age. Usually, a flick of your driver's license clears everything up.

The security guard was too involved in the other clubgoers to even look at the driver's license you had in your hand.

"If you hand me a fake, I'm putting you on the blacklist." He threatened.

Hoseok stepped in. Taking your license.

"We're not here to cause trouble or to hold up the line. Look at the driver's license. It's real."

With an attitude he looked at your ID. He even brought out the UV light. Flipping the card multiple times, trying to find any signs of fraud. But to be expected he couldn't find any.

"You can go in." He handed you the license, not making any eye contact. But make sure to add something smart to say. Hoseok ushered you in, taking you straight to the bar, to get the night started.

Namjoon: Pictures

You were taking yearly anniversary pictures with your fiancee Namjoon. The theme of the photoshoot was Midnight Kiss, fitting as Namjoon asked you to be his girlfriend on December 31st, mere seconds before the start of the new year. You were wearing a strappy four-inch heel that wrapped up your calf. Your dress was black with a sequence trailing the mesh sides. It cinched in your waist.

Namjoon wore a classic three-piece suit. He was handsome as ever and rocked the new low cut. The photographer was an energetic man who walked you both into placements. Complimenting on how photogenic you both were.

"Would you all like to do cute kiss pose?"

You nodded. Taking Namjoon's hands and placing them on your hips. As the taller individual natural Namjoon craned down to reach your lips. Right before your lips could touch, the photographer spoke up.

"Uh maybe we should find a new pose for Namjoon."

Slightly flustered, you looked to your fiancee. He too also looked confused.

"With the major height difference, Namjoon just looks... awkward."

"Oh-" Namjoon spoke. His slender fingers coming up to cover his mouth. You could see a smile creeping up.

"It just looked painful. Maybe let's try it sitting down." Pulling out a prop from the studio, Namjoon takes a seat first. You sit on his lap.

"Much better." The photographer crouches snapping the pose in different angles and lighting.

"I didn't think I was this short with the heels." You spoke between the kiss.

Namjoon chuckled. "I am six-foot, babe."

Jimin: Awardshow

You were at the Grammy's sitting beside your best friend, who accompanied you as your plus one to the event. The ceremony was dragging, and it was only forty minutes into the evening. The jokes were tiresome and the performances were frankly too loud. Overstimulated wasn't the word.

During one of the commercial breaks, you were getting ready to sneak a snack into your mouth when you heard your name called. Stuffing the snack into your purse, you smiled, turning your head.

Humbly coming up to you it was Jimin from BTS. You were well aware of who the singer was, as you both chatted privately from time to time. This was the first time you too were meeting in person.

"Yn. Hi!" Jimin bowed. He looked ethereal in his suit. His brown was a sandy brown hair. A middle part that looked perfect for him.

"May I hug you?" He spoke lowly taking note of your friend.

"Yes, of course. It's so good to see you." Standing up, you gave Jimin a warm hug, mindlessly rubbing his back. Jimin was glad to experience being in your arms. However, he didn't realize how short you were.

You only had a view moments before it was now time, for the show to continue. You waved Jimin goodbye as he walked back to his seat. It wouldn't be until after the award show that you would catch up with Jimin and his members. He was speaking informally about his encounter.

"I didn't realize how short Y/n was til I met her. She looks taller in her pictures."

Taehyung laughed hearing the retelling. Taehyung watched as you slinked up behind Jimin. In a more comfortable attire for the afterparty.

You wrapped you arm around Jimin's waist. Snuggling up to his side.

"I'm short eh." You feigned attitude.

Jimin looked down. Smiling seeing your face.

"You are it kinda caught me off guard."

"You're lucky my heels were hurting my feet." You laughed.

Taehyung: Sharing Clothes

It was a lazy Sunday at your apartment. Taehyung, your boyfriend was crashing at your place for the weekend. You all had an eventful day exploring new sites in the city. You all went rock climbing, ate lunch, and binged the newest season of Love is Blind.

Now you stood in the kitchen blending a fruit smoothie for yourself and Tae. The summer heat was seeping into your house, getting to the point where you had to take off your pants.

Taehyung just waking up stepped out from the corner. His wispy strands slightly sticking up on top of his head.

"Morning sleepy head." You greeted.

"Morning." Taehyung responded. He sat at the kitchen island. He sipped on the smoothie. Loving the pineapple and strawberry combination.

"Thank you."

"No problem baby." You smiled. You walked by Taehyung going to sit on the couch. Starting back up the season of Love is Blind you left off on last night. Taehyung followed your body as you propped your feet up.

"Yn?"

"Yeah?" You paused wanting to hear the conversation on the tv. Taehyung walked out the corner of your eye standing in front of you. He looked you up and down.

"Are you wearing pants?"

"Yeah." You pulled down the basketball shorts.

"I thought you were naked underneath."

"You sound disappointed." You teased back. Raising an eyebrow slightly.

"Mmm maybe." He spun back around sipping on his homemade smoothie.

Jungkook: High Shelf

The summer heat was nothing to mess with. It was increasing in temperature each passing summer. Jungkook's skin was slightly pink as he slid open the screen door from the backyard. He had a couple of friends over, and they were sitting outside sipping lemonade in the shade, doing everything in their power to avoid the scorching heat.

" Don't tell that story Jaehyun." Jungkook closed the door behind him.

Jungkook's heart nearly dropped watching you climb up in the chair. With wobbly knees you stood up on the chair.

Sturding the chair, Jungkook whisper scolded you.

"Jungkook. You scared me!" You placed a hand over your heart. "Don't come up behind me like that."

"You scared me stepping up on this chair. What are you trying to reach anyway?"

"I'm tryna reach some seasonings at the top of the cabinet." Jungkook motioned for you to step down off the chair. He slid it out of his way, stepping on his tiptoes to reach up and get the spices you pointed out for him.

"Just tell me next time okay." He lifted the chair placing it back. You laughed watching him slip back outside to converse with his friends.

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