#hugbin

(f…fem..gu 🔫)

You can't hide from me. I know what it is you really want, so here's femguru from my wip game! Enjoy, beloved beanie ♥

For everyone else looking in, the premise of the wider fic is essentially: "What if SatoSugu fell in love at a sex party upon realising they can never fuck anyone else ever again because they've found the one and only person who truly matches their freak?"

Yep. It's horny and it's queer and it's genuinely insane in parts.

N.B. Suguru is cisswapped in this WIP. You are only seeing a portion of the entire work out of context here. It's likely not even the most controversial thing about this fic and I am not interested in writing disclaimers to prove I'm not an asshole. Please just scroll by (or unfollow) if it offends you!

Even in the low light, even draped in darkness, she stands out. She’s taller than most men, but it isn’t her height, Satoru realises now. It’s the way she wears it. In his experience, tall girls slouch. They droop their shoulders to make themselves seem smaller, and they definitely don’t wear heels. Not when the average man avoids women who are taller than him the same way he avoids a cold dunk in a pair of Speedos. Maybe it’s a consequence of the fact that Satoru has never been average at anything in his life, but he thinks those guys are insane. He’d have to get closer to confirm it, but this girl might be taller even than him, at least in the little slip on things hugging her painted toenails. It’s doing way more for him than he expected. He follows the line of a long leg, tracing the arch of her foot with his eyes, up along a calf with more muscle tone than his own. Satoru would put it down to the stilettos if not for the size of her thighs. Where a lacy hem brushes against her quads, they’re literally casting shadows. Satoru thinks she’s too glam to play rugby, then realises he’s making assumptions based on stereotypes and reminds himself it’s the second thought that counts. He hopes so, anyway, because his first thought was neither respectable nor respectful. Something involving watermelons that happen to be the exact size of his head. It’s probably for the best that everything above her glorious thighs is hidden from wandering eyes like his. The luxurious folds of her robe make it hard to distinguish the shape of her, save for where the sash is secured around the dip of her waist. A thin scrap of silk isn’t enough to stop her spilling out the top of it, but considering how taut the delicate material looks where it strains to keep everything contained, it’s impressive just how little she’s spilling out the top of it. It only serves to make Satoru more curious about what she’s keeping under wraps, which he supposes is the entire point. Exploring other people’s bodies is why they’re all here, but he finds this is the only one he’s interested in mapping. It isn’t her height. It isn’t even her tits. It’s the way she wears it. The span of her shoulders enhances the overall impression of an hourglass, but it also suggests strength. She carries herself like a fighter. Her posture is confident, her chest open, drawing his eye along a defined collarbone to the hollow at the base of her throat. Past a pointed chin, he sees painted lips, tugging up at one corner. And past those, he sees sharp eyes whittled to a sharp point. They’re staring at him, staring at her. Creeps are not welcome at Kitsune events. It was printed in black on white at the door. At once, Satoru feels incriminating colour rush to his cheeks, and the flimsy mask over his eyes is nowhere near enough to hide it. Nothing like the ones the Foxes are wearing, shielding half their faces from view. Not for the first time tonight, Satoru feels like he’s on show. The weight of this one woman’s attention is heavier than all of the eyes on him over the course of the evening combined — and there have been plenty. He thinks he should look away, but he can’t. He doesn’t want to. If all she has to offer him is scorn, then he’ll take it like a champ. Stupid to pretend he doesn’t want her now. There’s a chance it’ll get him kicked out, but something about the smile playing on her lips makes Satoru hopeful. It stokes the little part of him that wonders if she… Where it had been racing in his chest only moments ago, his heart slows to an anticlimactic rhythm once more. Honestly, it’s what he expected. She hasn’t shown much interest in the company of men all evening. He would know; he’s been watching her long enough. As she turned away from him, the little fox had tossed her dark hair over her shoulder and the points of her pretty gold ears had caught the light. It’s the same mask Shōko is wearing, the same mask almost everyone is wearing, but Satoru swears it was made with her eyes in mind. Well, he supposes no one has ever died from disappointment.

I don't know what'll happen to this one. My friends deserve their femguru, but I don't feel 100% confident about the setting. The fictional Kitsune Klub (and its accompanying rules) is heavily based on a real members only "femme first" community, and I feel solid in my depiction of said community in the broader WIP. I feel confident in my depictions of gender and sexuality and complex human beings across my writing in general.

However, I don't feel confident that others won't take issue with this particular story, and as soon as fanfic stops being fun — i.e. you're anticipating the bad faith criticism from anonymous people on the internet more than you're enjoying the actual experience of writing it — it's time to hit da bricks.

With this cheeky double dip from beloved beanie, that's the last ask from my wip game! I've linked all the titles you guys asked about over in that post for anyone who wants to take a look at the madness without scrolling through my tags to find them!

I think we're all in need of some softness on this miserable Sunday in January. Therefore, no rugby AU since it's toxic as hell, but I do have a nice long chunk from Oxbridge AU for you. Let me set the scene!

Our boys are both doctoral students at the University of Oxford. Gojo moved to the UK when he was tiny and has been through the English schooling system (he attended Eton *shudders*) whereas Geto is an international student living in the country for the first time. They're very different, except for all the ways they're the same.

It's a soft and sweet and occasionally sexy story about otherness and belonging, emptiness and fullness, nothing and everything. Also, Gojo rows for Oxford. I cannot explain this to you; you either get it or you don't. And if you don't, look up the Boat Race. Oxbridge AU.

In the following snippet, it's an unusually cold night in early December and poor Suguru has experienced the horrors of the British railway system firsthand. Having been thrown off the train at some tiny station in the middle of nowhere (probably because of a single snowflake on the track), he turns to the one person he really doesn't want to ask for help.

For anyone new to this wip, head over to my #oxbridge au tag to see a few more snippets and the most beautiful Kim art, too! Enjoy this soft little scene!

‘Where are you?’ Biting his lip, Suguru glances up at the sign over the level crossing, as though reading the unfamiliar words one more time will help him with the pronunciation. ‘Ascott-under-Wychwood?’ He hates it when they talk in English. He hates feeling like he’s struggling to catch up. More than anything, he hates that he feels anxious to impress Gojō Satoru of all people. Hates the pride that shudders through him when he repeats it syllable for syllable in his perfect accent. ‘Is that on the A44?’ he asks, as though Suguru knows the first thing about the English road network. He hears himself being put on speaker as Gojō punches it into the map, followed by the sudden sound of movement. ‘Got it,’ he says, a little breathless as he rustles around. ‘I’ll be with you in 40.’ A pause. ‘Let’s say 45 just in case.’ Suguru’s sigh of relief puffs out around him in a cloud of steam under the streetlights. ‘Are you sure?’ Gojō laughs down the receiver, but it’s a soft thing. ‘That’s why you called me, isn’t it?’ he says, letting some of the teasing tone Suguru remembers creep into his voice at last. It’s almost a relief to know that he didn’t get the wrong number—that this is actually the same asshole he’s been doing a poor job of avoiding over the last couple of months—until Gojō speaks again. ‘Hey, it’s pretty cold out.’ On the other end of the line, he sounds uncharacteristically hesitant. ‘Is there somewhere you can wait til I get there?’ Before he’d picked up the phone, Suguru had dragged his suitcase past a line of terraced houses on the quiet road into the village, cringing at the noise of the wheels rattling around on the pavement. He’d taken one look at the people falling out of the only place that was open at this time on a Thursday night and immediately turned around again. ‘Yeah, I think so,’ he says, pulling his coat closer to his body. ‘Yeah.’ ‘See you in 45 then?’ —

In the end, Gojō arrives only 36 minutes after he hangs up the call. When he pulls up outside the little station in his silver Mercedes, Suguru’s teeth are chattering something terrible. He’s slow to get up from where he’s been perched on the edge of a planter, limbs stiff with cold. Gojō springs out of the car, leaving the engine running as he rushes round to open the passenger side door. Suguru is shuffling towards the back with his suitcase when it’s suddenly snatched from his icy fingers and replaced with a sweater that feels impossibly warm in his frigid hands. ‘It’s been under the heater the whole way here. Put it on before it gets cold.’ Suguru can only blink up at him, stunned into silence either by the gesture or by the sight of Gojō’s fluffy hair under the harsh LED street lights, lit up like a halo. Shrugging a little, he says, ‘Figured you wouldn’t want to sit in a pub in some nowhere village.’ Suguru hates that he feels anxious to impress Gojō Satoru of all people. He opens his mouth to make his excuses, but Gojō is quicker. ‘It’s fine, I wouldn’t either.’ He’s always quicker, but for once, he doesn’t sound like he’s teasing Suguru. ‘Put it on.’ Gojō is always quicker. And Suguru is always struggling to catch up. Maybe that’s why, for once, he does as he’s told. It’s one of those big baggy branded things he wears all the time. Oversized and shapeless and wonderfully warm as Suguru sinks down into the passenger seat, shivering at the heat bleeding through the back of it. With his coat pulled up over his knees, he presses his nose into the collar as Gojō bundles his suitcase into the back, breathing in the scent of fabric softener and someone else’s space. Above the quiet purr of the engine, the radio is turned down low. The car is clean, impersonal save for the Agumon air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror. Sandalwood, he thinks. Except for the heated seats, it’s nothing like Suguru expected.

Gojō throws his jacket onto the backseats before he gets into the car. As soon as the door shuts behind him, he turns the blowers up, strips off his hoodie, and tosses that in the back, too. ‘Toasty in no time,’ he says, clipping his seatbelt and checking Suguru’s for good measure. As he searches for the buckle beneath all of his layers, Suguru remains silent. He’s aware that he hasn’t said a single word since Gojō turned up after driving some 30 kilometres to rescue him. It’s just that he always forgets what Gojō looks like beneath the baggy sweaters he favours most. Baggy sweaters like the one currently warming Suguru from the inside out. His shirt isn’t skintight, but it still clings to his shoulders as he twists in his seat. It still clings to his arms. A rower’s physique through and through. ‘There’s some stuff in there in case you haven’t eaten,’ Gojō says, reaching across to pop the glove box before he puts the car into gear. In the fading light of the overheads, Suguru sees a couple of protein bars, a pack of dried mango, and a bottle of water. ‘I brought some chocolate buttons too, but I ate a few on the way here.’ A mostly empty bag drops into his lap. ‘Sorry it’s all sweet,’ Gojō says as he turns them around. ‘There isn’t much open at this time of night, but we can take a detour if you’re hungry. There’s a service station on the ring road. I don’t mind swinging by if you want to—’ ‘This is plenty.’ Suguru cuts in, somehow finding his voice amidst all the overwhelm. He dips his hand into the bag to retrieve a chocolate button, if only so Gojō will relax a little. Between the sweater and the sweets and the service station, he appears to have thought of literally everything. ‘You’re very attentive,’ he says, unsure whether he wants to laugh or cry. ‘Thank you, Gojō.’ In the driver’s seat, Gojō smiles softly, strangely. Even in the dark, Suguru swears he can see him blushing as they pull out onto the tiny lane winding its way around the edge of the village. Single carriageway, no streetlights. He really was stranded in the middle of nowhere, then. The car is comfortably quiet for as long as it takes to reach the junction at the end of the lane, which is all of 30 seconds. As Gojō takes a left, he suddenly speaks as though compelled. ‘You’re the only one who says my name like that.’ Nibbling on the edge of his chocolate button, Suguru turns to look at his face in profile, lit up by the glow of the lights on the dashboard. ‘People add extra vowels here.’ He’s still smiling. ‘Have you noticed that?’ Suguru has noticed it, actually. They do the same to his name. ‘Even Shōko does it when we’re not speaking in Japanese,’ Gojō continues, presumably well aware that he’s just added extra vowels to her name, too. ‘And we don’t really use Japanese unless we’re bitching about people so…’ He flashes Suguru a grin like he’s in on the joke.

For beanie, who's holding my hand every step of the way, the most special treat of all. Over the Threshold readers, don't open this if you want to go into chapter 15 completely clean! Yeah, we're doing it! Now! Right here!

OK OK LOL