verahella

[verahella]

Hello, congratulations on your milestone! 🎉

May I have (for the mix-and-match 😚) Dr.Ratio and the word-concept "bathtub"? 🫢

Take your time! ❤️❤️

this one was fun to write too (as per usual with ratio) i've written for dr ratio so much in the last two weeks i think i am becoming him.... Im slowly morphing into veritas ratio please save me... THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING this was lovely :3

my 1k event!

—°+..｡ﾟ｡ﾟ+.*.｡.—

“No way. You take bubble baths with a rubber duck?” 

Veritas freezes for no longer than a millisecond before whipping his head around to see you in the doorway of the bathroom. He’d been relaxing just moments ago, sinking into the hot water with his eyes closed, and yes there was a rubber duck in the bath with him but that was not by choice. It just happened to be there when he ran the bath, and he opens his mouth to argue but is quickly cut off by your endless rambling. 

“Anyways, I came to wash your hair. One of your assistants told me you just left in the middle of your usual work hours, and I thought, ‘wow, how odd, the Ratio I know would never do that!’ And then I thought, what better way to cheer my dear friend up than keep him company and wash his hair! It did look a little greasy today.” 

“I am not your dear friend,” he argues mockingly, but the bite in his voice falls short when you circle around the bath and set down your paraphernalia on the tiles next to you (a microfiber hair towel, shampoo, conditioner, some miscellaneous hair foams and sprays that he really does not trust you with). “You are the most insufferable person I have ever had the displeasure of knowing. Get out of my bathroom.” 

“This is our bathroom now, Ratio. We’re a community, you and me.” 

“It’s ‘you and I.’”

“Exactly! You and I, a community. You’re getting the hang of it now.” 

Veritas sighs, surrendering any potential of a relaxing evening to your whims. This is, unfortunately, how it usually goes, and he has yet to make a real effort to stop it. A voice in the back of his head taunts him because at his core, he has zero desire to stop it at all. 

“Come on,” you keep babbling, threading your fingers roughly through his already-damp hair. It’s not a pleasant sensation at all, and he winces and holds back a pained yelp. “It’s kind of like going to a spa, or whatever. I’m trying to pamper you. Be grateful!” 

“There’s nothing to be grateful about when you’re trying to scalp me,” he could push your hands away easily, bat you off and make you leave. Instead, though, he gives you a minute to tame your inelegant movements into something gentler. He hears the sound of a bottle uncapping, and then your hands are back on his scalp, lathering honey-scented shampoo into the layers of his hair. 

“Is this better?” you ask cheekily, tracing circles in his hair, digging your fingertips in and scratching just a little bit, hard enough to feel it but light enough that it’s still soothing. Veritas sighs through his nose, deep and heavy and sinking back into the water. There’s no mocking retorts, no quips, no sarcastic tone, just the even cycle of his breathing and the rhythm of his heartbeat thudding in his ears. If he tries hard enough, focuses enough, he can hear yours too, but it makes his stomach twist with an uncomfortable, unnameable feeling. 

In your bundle of things that you brought, there’s an empty plastic cup, and you use it to scoop water from the tub and rinse the foam from his hair. Veritas feels wholly exposed, for obvious reasons among others, and the urge to kick you out still sits heavy in his chest. Right next to it is a warmth, though, something holding his sensibility hostage, something that finds this more comforting than it would be if he’d sat in the bath until the water went cold, all alone, without your hands washing his hair clean of oil and grime and the weight of his research. 

You break him of his reverie, but the sudden sound of your voice isn’t as intrusive as he anticipated. “You know, you should start using this oil thing for your hair, I got it from one of my coworkers,” by now, his hair is completely rid of any remaining shampoo, and your hands are rubbing a thin layer of conditioner into the ends of each strand, “and it’s supposed to help your hair grow. I think you’d look great with long hair, Veritas, don’t you agree?” 

“What, do you think about that often?” It’s supposed to be something snarky, something to shut you down before you dig too deep, but you never catch the hint—it’s your best and worst quality. 

“Maybe,” you admit, heft in your words, a density that needs to be cut open and examined. He’s good at that—good at looking and prying, but he’s the worst if he’s next to you. You’re nowhere near as thorough of a researcher as him, but he thinks (with a sense of embarrassment) that when the subject is him, you’re the most qualified person around. “Wouldn’t it be nice? With your hair all down to your shoulders, maybe. And if you really think it’s a hassle to take care of, I’ll just do it for you.” 

He’s perfectly capable of taking care of his own hair, thank you very much, but the idea of having you wash it for him, brush out the tangles in it every other day is appealing to a starving man like Veritas. He aches, and the skin at the nape of his neck itches. 

“You’re saying nonsense,” he says, and he can feel the way his brow has tightened and he instinctively goes to chew at the dead skin on his lips. “My hair is perfectly fine the way it is.” 

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” you respond, “just giving you options.” Your hands finally leave his hair, and suddenly the water in the bathtub feels frigid and icy, and Veritas represses a shiver. “Your hair is squeaky clean. Now, get out of the bathroom! It’s my turn to hang out with the rubber duck.” 

“Would you—?!” Veritas turns to glare at you, but the impish grin on your face makes him falter. You’re incorrigible. “The duck isn’t mine! And you have your own bathroom. Stop invading my space.” 

“Sigh,” you say aloud, because you’re corny and theatrics are written into every part of your personality. “Oh, grandest Ratio, I really did think we were friends, but you wound me so deeply! All this time has meant nothing to you! All this new shampoo that I bought just for you, gone to waste…” 

“For gods’ sake,” he mutters, reaching for a set of pajamas that you’d so conveniently taken from his own dressers and brought with you while on your mission to wash his hair. “Turn around so I can get dressed and then you can use the bathroom. So annoying.” 

“Not annoying enough to kick me out, though,” you say, and you’re completely right, and Veritas will admit that one day, but certainly not today.

—°+..｡ﾟ｡ﾟ+.*.｡.—

gen taglist: @tragedy-of-commons @lasiancunin @hanyi-writes

#brainrot for a man i don’t even know #ily veritas #vera’s.recs.📖

[verahella]

Why do you reblog your own fics so much?

Because someone might as well!? And look at this. Look. At. This.

Does this look right to you??

These are just the last three fics I wrote. I appreciate the likes, believe me I do, but you have to understand. Likes do nothing for content creators. It’s the reblogs. Because that’s how you find shit on your dashboard. Through reblogs. Not likes. This isn’t twitter or tiktok or instagram. This is a website that’s run by the reblog system.

Reblogging helps content creators put their stuff out there. Why do you think so many people stopped writing fanfic and creating beautiful fanart and edits? It’s because they put in hours of work and don’t get nearly enough notes for their masterpieces. Yes we do this because we enjoy it but like...some validation won’t hurt. A boost of confidence here and there might be all someone needs to finish whatever thing they started and left.

Anyway, I’m still going to reblog my shit...

[verahella]

triple trouble, atsumu miya

pairing atsumu miya x f!reader word count 1.6k synopsis atsumu steals every reporters' attention as he introduces the media to his triplets during a post-game interview; or, more accurately, his triplets steal all the attention. like father, like sons. content contains domestic fluff, dad!atsumu, atsumu & reader are married and so in love, babies, mention of pregnancy more in this collection!

The flashes of cameras going off, the constant exclamations of “Miya! Miya!” coming from the crowd of journalists and reporters all vying for his attention, the fact that the foldout chairs they use for all these post-game interviews are harder on your ass than falling on asphalt — all of this is being handled with ease by a smug Atsumu Miya.

Or, normally all of this would be handled with ease by a smug Atsumu Miya.

But right now, the Atsumu Miya struggling to take a seat in the most uncomfortable chair known to man, dyed hair a mess, his usual trademark smirk replaced by furrowed brows and a look of concentration, doesn’t appear to be the godlike adversary on the court. In fact, he looks oddly human. 

The cause of what has humbled this cocky athlete and reduced him to mere mortal man are the three chubby toddlers he’s cradling in his arms. 

All of them are identical, from their chubby cheeks to their little grubby hands. Heads full of thick, dark brown hair (reminiscent of their father’s natural color) poke out from Atsumu’s hold, and the eighteen-month-olds’ eyes are all full of childlike wonder as they watch the crowd, confused as to who all these people are. 

After finally getting settled into his seat, Atsumu addresses the crowd casually, as if he didn’t spend the last two minutes ensuring that his baby boys weren’t going to slip from his arms while he tried to prepare for this interview. Akimitsu is secured in his left arm, Akihiko in the right, leaving poor Akinari to cling onto Atsumu’s neck. 

While athletes have been getting more comfortable with bringing their kids up on stage with them, no one has ever seen a professional athlete haul his three babies with him. 

A fact that one reporter is more than happy to point out.

“Miya, wife put you on babysitting duty?” A male journalist calls out from the crowd. A few chuckles follow, but Atsumu just smiles at the mention of you.

“Nah. It’s not babysittin’ if they’re your damn kids, right? Besides, she deserves a break.” A few appreciative murmurs flutter through the crowd. 

After the initial surprise of seeing identical triplets being carried in the MSBY Black Jackals’ setter’s arms, the reporters are back to business as usual. They’re all professionals — even if hearing Atsumu give them a great quote to use as a hook (“I respect Nakamura as a human bein’ but calling him a setter for a professional league volleyball team is an insult to setters everywhere.”) is followed by him cooing sweet words of affirmation to whichever of his sons happens to be babbling in his ears. 

“Nakamura isn’t a very good player, is he, Akihiko?” No one outside of your family and his teammates have ever heard Atsumu sound so affectionate. His words are practically coated in sugar, and it’s hard to remember that he’s insulting another player in the league whenever he’s practically bumping noses with his toddler son when he says it. 

Akihiko, most likely due to his father’s influence, lets out a stream of enthusiastic gurgles that Atsumu automatically translates to him being in complete agreement with him. 

“Write that down.” He says to the crowd. “Even my baby knows he’s shit at the game.” 

There’s a few more minutes of Atsumu answering the usual post-game questions, but halfway through one of his responses, Akinari loses his grip on Atsumu’s neck and is about to tumble to the floor before Atsumu’s reflexes kick in. You’ve made a joke once that you think Atsumu’s reflexes have become heightened after becoming a father; his athletic instincts have merged with the famous “dad reflexes” all fathers seem to be gifted with. (Atsumu tells reporters that this is why he keeps on becoming a better player; people think his family would hold him back, but once again, family is his greatest blessing.)

“Ya gotta hang onto me, buddy.” Atsumu can’t even pretend to be stern when he tells this to Akinari, who only smiles at him and exclaims something unintelligible. He shifts Akinari to his left arm, relaxes back in his seat, and is even excited to answer a question concerning his play style compared to Tobio Kageyama’s, but as he readjusts the two boys in his arms, Atsumu can’t help but startle at the fact that he has three kids. Not just two. 

Momentarily panicked, he almost wants to ask why the hell no one told him one of his kids jumped ship but then he feels a tug on the bottom hem of his volleyball shorts. 

Peering under the table, Atsumu is greeted with the sight of Akimitsu’s mischievous little face. He’s the oldest of the three and takes after Atsumu the most — meaning, he’s the cutest little nightmare there could ever be. 

“Whatcha doin’ under the table, Mitsu?” Atsumu asks, and Akimitsu gives out a happy, gleeful shriek. He’s clapping his grubby hands together and cheering. 

“Dada found me!” 

“I did find ya, buddy.” Atsumu coos. “Now why don’t you come sit on daddy’s lap?” 

After wrangling up all his kids once more, Atsumu sighs and looks up at the timer in front of him. 

“I have enough time for one more question.” He tells the crowd.

“Are you excited to get out of here and get back home to the wife?” 

“I’m always happy to come home to [Name]. If there’s a professional league for motherhood, she’s going into the hall of fame. I don’t know how she handles these fools by herself all day.” 

Akihiko takes a tiny, chubby hand and smacks Atsumu in the face. Repeatedly. 

“Home! Home!” His slaps get slightly more aggressive, but Atsumu’s received some serves with his face before, so it doesn’t really phase him. “Home! Mama!” 

“Well, you heard the man.” Atsumu actually gives a genuine smile for the cameras. “We gotta head home.”

You’re applying your moisturizer in the bathroom despite the mirror being fogged up from the hot shower. It’s probably why you don’t anticipate strong arms wrapping themselves around your body, and you gasp before your muscle memory recognizes him. Your body easily relaxes against his, and you’re smiling as you ask your husband, 

“Had a good day today?”

“We took ‘em in two straight sets. Slaughtered the other team to the point where it wasn’t even fair.” He angles his head just right so he can kiss you on the cheek, but you gently slap him away.

“I’m putting on moisturizer right now.”

“Great. My lips are dry.” He goes in for another kiss, and even though you’re giggling, trying to pull away from him, he still plants a peck on your soft skin. “Should I go for seconds, just for good measure?” He teases.

“Hmm, I guess so.” 

“Oh? What’s with the change? Realize how much you can’t live without my touch?” He pulls you in closer to him, your back pressed firmly against his chest. He’s fresh out the shower, stray droplets of water greedily clinging onto his skin. 

“Maybe.” You tilt your head back on the front of his shoulder so that you can see him. “You know your interview is trending on Twitter, right?” 

“Oh, yeah? Bet Nakamura’s pissed.” Atsumu sounds too happy at the concept. 

“No. There’s actually an interesting clip that keeps going around. Someone already used it as an intro for a thirst edit of you.” 

You like it when Atsumu is thinking. There’s an adorable crease in between his furrowed brows, and you can practically see him going through the memory files in his brain, trying to figure out what could possibly be worthy of inspiring an edit of him. 

“You seriously don’t know?” You’re laughing at him, and it’s the sweetest sound in the world. Atsumu doesn’t take kindly to being the butt of a joke, but from the moment he saw you, he knew he’d do anything to stay by your side, even becoming a fucking court jester if that’s what it took. 

You reach for your phone on the counter, taking a few seconds to load up the fan edit you have favorited. 

He’s burying his face in your hair, hiding away as he hears the audio of him going now why don’t you come sit on daddy’s lap playing on a loop. He groans when you let it replay, uncharacteristically shy as you keep telling him to watch it. 

“The comments are the best part, though, baby!” You haven’t been able to stop giggling at jackingthejackalsoff’s very bold and very true statement of yeah, if i were [name], i’d pop out triplets for him too tf 😭🙏.  

As Atsumu’s hands travel to rest against the growing swell of your belly, you tease him. “So, when the twins are born, do you think you’ll have enough space in your arms to haul all five of our kids, or should we finally use that baby chest carrier Shoyo gifted us?” 

“I can carry all of ‘em and you onto that stage.” He regrets making this smug remark whenever you slightly drop your teasing tone and use what he dubs The Mom Voice on him.

“Oh? If that’s true, then why did it take you so long to realize Akimitsu crawled out of your arms while you were busy calling your opponents scrubs?” 

“Have I ever told you what a wonderful mother you are? And this moisturizer! Wow, I don’t know what you’ve been doing with your skin, baby, but keep it up.” He’s peppering your face with more kisses, hurriedly trying to change the subject, and you gladly let him.

#STFU THIS IS SO CUTE #i’d kill to be mrs miya #vera’s.recs.📖

[verahella]

switchin' the positions for you, osamu miya

pairing osamu miya x f!reader word count 2k synopsis osamu miya says you've got a lot to learn, rookie, and he's more than happy to teach you. content contains creampie, pet names (baby, good girl), slight praise kink (reader receiving), fwb to lovers, multiple positions, tennis player!reader author's notes to the requester: you know who you are, girl. give the masses (me) what i want: you to become a writer!!!

“Fuck.” Osamu hisses out the word like it burns to have it escape through his gritted teeth. “D’ya like that, baby?” 

You can’t give him a coherent answer; it’s kind of hard to hold a conversation with him when he’s got you sitting all snug on his lap, cockhead hitting that special sensitive spot of yours that you never knew you had until you start your little arrangement with him. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he’s the only person capable of reducing you to a hot, whiny mess but when you instinctually tighten up around his cock, he lets out a soft, smug laugh. 

His warm breath tickles your ear when he leans down to tell you, “Told ya I’d teach you a thing or two.” 

You try to tilt your head back so your eyes can meet his. You don’t like looking up to people, but Osamu is just so big. You’re sitting on him, pussy clamping down on his fat cock that’s buried snugly inside of you, your back pressed against his muscular chest. The man owns a restaurant; surely hauling all those massive rice bags couldn’t have possibly given him this figure. You want to make a face, let him know that his “I told you so” is not appreciated, but when he makes eye contact with you, he gives you a smirk — a warning. A split second later, he thrusts up, and you can’t hold back your moan. 

He did that on purpose, you think to yourself. He’s always baiting you, always waiting for the right moment to catch you off guard. You’re a favorite to win the Japan’s Women’s tennis tournament; no one catches you off guard. 

But when you’re out on the road, traveling with your team, and your starvation-induced tantrum leads to your coach making a pitstop to some hole-in-the-wall restaurant named Onigiri Miya, you learn that it is possible for someone to trip you up. 

“So you’re the girl with the killer serve,” is what he says the first time he’s taking your order. “You don��t look like much of a killer to me.” 

You’re pissed, hungry, and still upset over hearing the men’s team talk about how you look good in your skirt and should consider modeling for Sports Illustrated instead of trying to make it big in tennis. You’re frowning when you tell him, “Are you the owner of this restaurant?” 

“Yep.” 

“Doesn’t look like much of a restaurant to me.” In hindsight, maybe you shouldn’t be rude to the man handling your food. 

“It’s up and coming.” He says, eyes looking you up and down in a way that makes you suddenly very, very hyper aware of how fitted your top and how short your skirt is. He’s not ogling you; he’s sizing you up. Like you’re a challenge. “It’ll look it soon enough.” 

You like a good challenge. 

When you come back the next week, high off your victory, you walk through the doors of Onigiri Miya, smug and prideful. 

The feeling intensifies whenever he tells you he saw your game, but you’re immediately dissatisfied when he hits you with a, “Ya still got a lot to learn, though.” 

Your first lesson? Taking three of his thick fingers knuckle-deep in your pussy as your back is pressed against the wall of the storage room of Onigiri Miya. There’s only one single light bulb flickering in the darkness of the pantry, but you don’t focus on that. Instead, you focus on the searing heat from between your thighs, too eager to chase after pleasure to care about the fact that you’re so wet, you can hear every thrust. 

You’re so close to cumming, you find yourself moving your hips upwards, trying to bring yourself to release even faster. He immediately stops his ministrations, making an annoyed sound of clear disapproval.

“You need to learn how to stop bein’ so damn greedy.” His words come out as a raspy whisper, and when your walls involuntarily clench around his fingers, there’s a small noise that seems to come from the back of his throat. He’s holding himself back. 

Somehow, the fact that you have a strong effect on him as well makes you so pleased, you find yourself gripping his shoulder as you disobediently grind against his fingers yourself, letting out a loud whine as you cum all over his hand. 

With heated cheeks and heavy breathing, you let Osamu Miya know that being greedy is what makes you such a star player. You don’t get by with just taking what’s given to you; everything, from points on the court to a more-than-satisfactory orgasm, is yours for the taking. 

You don’t expect him to just smile at your prideful remark, and you certainly don’t expect him to remove his fingers from you, hold them up to the light so you can both admire the way his index, middle, and ring fingers are glistening with your juices, before he licks the pads of them. 

Is the room heating up? Did the air conditioning suddenly break? You feel hotter than usual as you watch the vulgar display, and you should be ashamed of the way your knees are already weak from hitting your climax, ashamed of the way you have to press your thighs together so he doesn’t catch the way you’re already anticipating a round two. 

“Have a taste, baby.” He’s grinning, smiling like the damn devil himself, as he extends his hand, brings the tips of his fingers to your lips. You shake your head no, not trusting yourself to speak. 

He pretends to sound disappointed. “No?” Then with a shrug and a smug more for me then, he licks the rest of your essence off of his fingers. 

“I could go for a second helping.” 

The sentence barely leaves his mouth before you find yourself parting your thighs to welcome him back.

Through the course of three months, you find yourself being taught various lessons from Osamu. He teaches you to mind your manners and refuses to fuck into you, choosing to tease you with the head of his cock instead. 

“Not gonna fuck ya ‘til you say please.” 

Like with your tennis matches, it all boils down to a game of stamina. Who can hold out the longest? His tip is wet and sticky with pre, and you can catch every hitch of his breath as he rubs against your clit. You’re soaking through his bedsheets, his bed being the only comfortable piece of furniture he has in his “work in progress” of a bachelor pad. 

He practices breathing exercises with you when he pushes himself as far as your little throat can take him. Drool will be dribbling out the corners of your swollen lips, and he has your hair bunched up in a makeshift ponytail, strands sloppily wrapped around his hand as he watches you try to take all of him in your mouth. 

“You gotta breathe through your nose, baby. Atta girl, that’s my good girl.”

He teaches you that you like praise. 

He’s more observant than you realize. You can tell from the way he recaps and analyzes your matches with you after a particularly rough game, and you can tell from the way he’ll notice if the way he has you bent over the kitchen counter is uncomfortable for you. He knows you like the way he gives it to you hard, sloppy, messy. You have a meticulous training routine, every aspect of your life reduced to a bullet point on an itinerary from your personal coach. 

It makes sense that his sloppy kisses, the ones that leave your lips swollen, the ones that are less than kisses and more of just messy exchanges of spit, are your favorites. You like being reduced to a wet, boneless, fucked out little mess, and you like it because it’s all coming from him. He has a business to tend you, and you have a professional athletic career, and yet, the world is reduced to his barebones apartment bedroom. No tennis matches, no food truck deliveries to worry about.

Just your back pressed against his chest, the thin material of your athletic tanktop and his tight fitted compression shirt doing nothing to stop the searing exchange from both of your bodies’ heat. 

“Told ya I’d teach you a thing or two.”

All you can do is close your eyes and lose yourself to the overwhelming pleasure of having him buried to the hilt inside of you. 

“You’re so good for me, ya know that?” You like the way he grunts out the words, punctuating each word with a thrust that has you clinging to his forearm, both of his hands wrapped tightly around your stomach so you can stay still, stay easily accessible for him. “You’re not just my good girl, you’re my best girl.”

You let his words of praise soak you to the bone. You’re letting out desperate, high-pitched, needy whines, and there’s no more holding back on his end. He’s fucking into you with the stamina and strength that rivals some athletes. 

You finish first; you always do. You tried, once, to get him to cum before you, but once he caught on to your little scheme, he stretched your body, had your legs folded and sore as he fucked into you almost angrily, like getting him off before you have is something he takes personal offense to. 

He’s addicted to watching you cum. The way you can’t control your body, your tight, always stressed out body that only seems able to relax when he’s smothering you, his body heat getting lost and mixed up with yours. You fit so perfectly against him, under him, on top of him. When you cum, you tilt your head back, resting against his shoulder. Your eyes look dazed, almost like you’re unable to see straight, but he stares at you, smiling as he realizes that every time you cum, you can’t help but search for him. 

When he finishes inside of you, you think you’re close to cumming again. The rush of hot, thick heat flooding your now-sloppy insides has you whining so cutely, he almost wants to start fucking into you again. But he doesn’t. Instead, he lets you rest, gives you a minute to catch your breath. 

“I don’t normally do this, y’know.” He sounds a bit out of breath, and it fills you with deep satisfaction to know that you’re capable of having this effect on him. It’d be embarrassing to be beat in a contest of stamina when you’re the professional athlete here. 

“So you’ve said.” 

Osamu is busy with his business, and you’re busy with tennis. The two of you know that there’s not a lot of room for a relationship, but the two of you are also well aware of the fact that there’s something more to this than just good sex. It’s obvious in the way he holds you, and it’s obvious in the way you let him. He wants to cook you good food and to meet his mother, and you want him at all your games, to dedicate your victory speeches to him. 

“I wanna do this right.” And he’s so sincere when he says it that it makes your heart flutter, gives you the unfamiliar sensation of butterflies in your tummies. “I wanna take you out on dates and for you to meet my family.” 

“I’ve never been in a relationship.” You admit this to him, even though he already knows. “So, I wouldn’t know what’s the ‘right’ way to go about it, anyway.” You peer up at him, trying to gauge his reaction. “But you promised you’d teach me a thing or two.”

“Yeah?” The word comes out breathless, full of anticipating, wanting, hope.

“And I think I really don’t mind being taught every once in a while.”

#OSAMU MY SWEETHEART <33 #this was so goooooodd #vera’s.recs.📖

[verahella]

hello everyone :) i usually don't post things like this, but it has come to my attention that @daeydreams is copying my work and reposting it on her blog while acting inoccent.

proof under cut! tw: discourse :(

i first encountered dae's blog when her 'work' appeared on my dashboard.

the words, everything, all copied from my post. i'm also pretty sure she took the banner as well.

this post, was MY original work. And I would like to add, she didn't even change anything on my post, just plainly copied/pasted it and posted it.

For context, i posted this on March 17th, 2024.

Dae posted my work on April 23rd, 2024.

link to the fic

so I went to her dm's to ask her to take it down, providing screenshots about my plagiarised work.

and her response wasn't exactly the politest.

then after providing that less than polite response, she blocked me.

Then after she blocked me, i got a dm from one of my mutuals (their user will not be provided as they asked me to keep it confidential) saying that she copied another one of my works.

my work. my words. posted on April 24th, 2024

mine was posted on March 6th, 2024.

clear, blatant plagerism.

i do not tolerate plagerism, in any shape, form or way.

this, is my original ideas, my original work.

this is a situation that i do not tolerate, and it is degrading to have something stolen from me, even making it obvious that you were stealing my work. didn't jumble it up or even replace words- just uprightly copied my work and posted it as yours.

calling yourself a writer, not to mention acting inoccent while you were at it, is pathetic.

Please block and report dae, and if you are following/mutuals with this person, I ask that you block me/break our mutual, if you want to keep interacting with dae. If you want to add any other information/edits to this post, send me a dm or ask to add more.

other writers, whether you're following me, mutuals with me or don't know who the fuck I am, please take the time to block dae as well. in her last dm to me, she said in plain words, "and if I want (and I will) I can copy other writers-" I have a feeling that any/all works posted on her account, is from other writers.

so please, beware of dae and block/report her.

#i don’t usually interact with discourse but this is so blatantly plagiarism #some people need to get a job ‼️

[verahella]

august is Taylor Swift™’s month

#i don’t make the rules #vera’s.musings.💭

[verahella]

do it scared do it stupid do it badly whatever it is that's worth doing, that's worth anything at all, we do it. be it scared be it stupid be it badly. the sincerity remains the same.

#^^^

[verahella]

suddenly had an idea for bllk boys. . .

#does anybody even read for them anymore #vera’s.musings.💭

[verahella]

older brother sukuna always makes jokes that he has multiple gfs and how he has sooo much game, but his ridiculous jokes never really bother you considering whenever the young, pretty babysitters stand next to him and flirt with him while they wait for the preschoolers to get out of school, sukuna just crosses his arms and completely ignores them, glaring at door covered in messy, toddler drawn flowers. and the second that door opens he is scooping yuuji up by the hood of his jacket, ignoring the child’s whines of how he didn’t say goodbye to megumi, and not even glancing toward the girls that still seem to be fawning over him.

[verahella]

Tbh Rahul is so good he literally said I’m gonna love my absolutely crazy adorable wife so hard and also raise her little sister and make our own little family in a far away terrible land (England)

[verahella]

geto stole satoru's chair

[verahella]

yoyo! please can i request jjk men reaction to yn always sleeping hugging a pillow(because it’s comfy lol) 🙈. thankyou! :)

kissing you rn nonnie i too cannot go to sleep without hugging a pillow <3

ᡣ𐭩 SLEEP TIGHT !

✎ feat. g. satoru, n. kento, r. sukuna

ᡣ𐭩 GOJO SATORU

honestly, if you hug or show affection to anything that isn't him in a five metre radius of his presence, it's your fault.

you palm around the cold sheets, squinting an eye open when nothing soft meets your hand. you could've sworn it was right there a second ag—

"oh god—what are you doing, satoru?"

gojo huffs, unaware that the luminous spheres of blue he calls eyes look like they're about to devour you in the dark, "i should be the one asking you that." he crosses his arms, glaring at you. "is this who you fuck when i'm not in the city?" his hand vigorously shakes the pillow that was in your arms a few moments ago.

your heartbeat is still recovering from the jumpscare when you sigh, running a hand over your face. "kind of, yeah. when you're out on missions, this makes me feel like you're here. helps me sleep better."

his eyes soften and the curves of his lips are threatening to burst into a smile but he huffs again, looking away. "i guess i can excuse it. but now that i'm here, you don't need it."

"...it's also a way better cuddler."

"what?!

(cue to you repenting on your words while gojo smothers you to show how good of a cuddler he is. please, 'toru it's summer.)

ᡣ𐭩 NANAMI KENTO

it's only when nanami takes a quiet breath in that he notices the absence of your comments.

soft words come to a pause as he glances down at his lap, where you lay. light streams in through the window, kissing your relaxed face, eyes shut in content while a river of drool runs from your mouth.

your grip tightens on the pillow that's lucky enough to be snuggled close to your chest and the dimples on kento's cheeks make a faint appearance.

even though he's in risk of being replaced by a mere pillow, nanami always found it adorable that you hugged something to bed. he remembers the first time you slept together, you bashfully explained to him that it was a childhood trait of yours that continued through your later years.

(he didn't mind; it's a feeling that provides protection and comfort. an anchor that grounds you when you're most vulnerable.)

he also remembers that he offered to take the position of your pillow, to which you had stuttered an eager 'yes.’

nanami sets down the book with a bookmark, guessing the page where you nodded off. he gently lifts your head off his lap, moving just enough to get a blanket.

he places a kiss on your forehead and warmth fills his chest when you smile in your sleep, "sweet dreams, love."

(your dreams consist of a hazy blond with a precious smile but nanami doesn't know need to know that when he sees you blushing in the morning.)

ᡣ𐭩 RYOMEN SUKUNA

sukuna would rather eat his own shoe than admit it, but he's the clingy one in the relationship. especially in the mornings.

the moment sunlight peeks through the curtains and his soul regains the slightest bit of consciousness, his body is searching for yours, magnetic. your soft snores fill the room and his heavy arm slings over your body, ready to pull you into him—until it meets something soft.

"the fuck?" his voice is groggy from sleep but he rips the pillow from your grasp with ease. sukuna stares at it with barely concealed disgust before he flings it to the other side of the room. he huffs, moving to rest on top of you. you deserve suffocation.

...sukuna's gaze moves to the limp pillow on the floor and his eyes narrow. a bit of careful shuffling and a pair of scissors. sukuna comes back to bed after a few moments, crawling back on top of you with a hum of satisfaction. that's better.

(in the morning, you frown, checking under the bed. "hey sukuna, have you seen my pillow? the big, comfy one i bought yesterday."

"no."

“…hey, what's that fluff falling from the trash can—")

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #gojo x reader #nanami x reader #sukuna x reader #gojo satoru x reader #nanami kento x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #i’m not sorry for the amount of em dashes i use #but i am sorry for how shit sukuna’s turned out #vera’s.jjk.library.✎

[verahella]

geto and gojo went on that mission together and saved miminana then they graduate and become teachers, toji is working through his gambling addiction and trying to raise megumi and tsumiki with shiu’s help, haibara barely missed a fatal blow on that mission and he and nanami brought the souvenir sweets back, riko and kuroi live in okinawa and are safe, and NOTHING BAD HAS EVER HAPPENED TO THEM.

[verahella]

gojo x f!reader. cw food (they’re eating ice cream and reader enjoys *glass shatters* mint chocolate chip). fluff, established relationship, feelings etc. | wc 901, divider thanks to cafekitsune!

Sitting thigh to thigh with Satoru on a park bench not far from your home, the two of you decided to take a bit of leisure time to yourselves. The sweets in your hands were a must according to him and now that you’re sitting to enjoy them, you have to admit that he was correct.

“When I was eight, I told my mom I wanted to marry ice cream someday,” you sigh after scooping a spoonful in your mouth.

The anecdote makes you feel a little embarrassed to share though you recall it easily. Sitting next to her in her car, merrily enjoying the mint chocolate chip scoop topped cone in your little hand, on a day not entirely unlike the mid-spring one you’re enjoying now. You meant every word of it, as big of a lover back then as you are now, even for the inanimate and edible.

“You treat me like I’m ice cream sometimes so maybe you were right.”

He wiggles his eyebrows salaciously, the motion visible over the tops of his sunglasses. You giggle and playfully swat at him, careful to keep your cup and spoon steady. The reference to your pension for enjoying licking every inch of him (as if he doesn’t have the same proclivities...) you possibly can warms your cheeks and you scoop a bite from your cup and into your mouth to cool yourself down, a pleased hum further grabbing his attention.

The two of you aren’t married, not quite yet, but he has told you for years that you will be. It’s you or no one as far as he’s concerned, well aware he’s going to live an easy lifetime listening to that same pleased sigh on repeat for years to come.

“Do that again?”

You scoff and roll your eyes although there is no bite to it. The ability to roll with the punches is one of the things he has always enjoyed the most about you. There is an innate playfulness to you that perfectly compliments his own even though you may pretend to be Miss Serious when the mood strikes you.

Like right now.

“Stop being gross and enjoy this beautiful day, Satoru.

He plays off your displeased warning with a laugh, tossing his arm around your shoulder and pulling you closer to him. It really is a treat to get to spend this time with him during the daylight hours considering how busy both of your schedules tend to be thanks to, well, the whole sorcery thing and the sun illuminates him enough you can almost see a halo around the top of his head.

This world is beautiful because he’s in it, you think to yourself.

Dreamily, you sigh and glance down at your thighs instead of looking at him which would only further your lovesick feeling. Your heart is so full it feels it may pop like a balloon, a sign you need to let out what you’re thinking about.

“You know, sometimes I think about anything I loved before you and that love feels so shallow.”

That is not what he was expecting you to say. Satoru’s eyes widen and he tilts his head, puffing out air loudly.

“You loved something before you met me? What a betrayal.”

The smile on your face dims and your posture tightens while you turn your face away from him. He has seen you in every vulnerable state a person can be in - naked and clothed, sick and well, broken and whole. Even if you withdraw, he will always bring you back. This time is no different.

Gojo reaches for you, turning your face toward him with his free hand.

“No no no, come back here. I was just kidding.”

His fingers rest against your jaw and his thumb runs over the round of your cheek and your sour look fades in an instant. There are many things you loved before him, people too, and though it stings to know your feelings weren’t preserved until the day he landed in your life he smiles at you softly. From the day he admitted his feelings to you years ago, you were his and his alone. There’s no use in being jealous now and whatever remains of the bitter taste dies within him when he looks at your face and leans over to glance into your cup.

“So are you saying you love me more than ice cream?”

Giggling, you tap his nose with the handle of the wooden spoon in your hand.

“I’m saying that I love you more than anything that has come before or after you at the very least.”

“Then I’ll take this as a sign you don’t want that then.” Reaching for your ice cream, he wiggles his fingers and you hold it out of his grasp with a laugh. “No,” you feign annoyance and sigh loudly. “But I’ll share it with you.”

Reaching into your cup you pull out a scoop and feed it into his open, waiting mouth. He dramatically hums his pleasure, bundling his hands against his chest and shaking slightly. It’s a ridiculous move but you can’t help but laugh at him, reaching for another scoop in to feed him again.

“I love you too, by the way.” He adds after accepting the second bite, mouth still half full and cold. Nodding with a soft smile, you know he always will.

#so bittersweet <33 #vera’s.recs.📖

[verahella]

S

#i’m getting so much toji and megumi on my dash #but im not complaining #THEY’RE SO AFORABLE

[verahella]

#team aevntio 🤚

[verahella]

S S

Escaping nap time (unsuccessful)

#SO CUTEEEE