#(or maybe even authorship)

[the-hwaelweg]

Working in publishing, my inbox is basically just:

Article on the Horrors of AI

Article on How AI Can Help Your Business

Article on How AI Has Peaked

Article on How AI Is Here to Stay Forever

Article on How AI Is a Silicon Valley Scam That Doesn't Live Up to the Promise and In Fact Can't Because They've Literally Run Out of Written Words to Train LLMs On

[possesseddesiress]

Between us (English Version)

CONTENT WARNING: This story includes themes of transformation and body control with a suggestive approach. If this type of narrative is not to your liking or you do not meet the recommended age, we suggest you do not continue. All images used (if any) belong to their respective owners. I claim no authorship over them and they are only used for illustrative purposes.

If you decide to go ahead, welcome to Possessed Desires, where mind and body are never completely under your control.

Between us (English version)

Iker and Yuki were very close, good friends. They had grown up together, being friends from a very early age, even though each one belonged to a different culture, they had gotten along well from the first minute they met. And from there, they did everything together, they never left each other's side.

Even though time would go by and they would change; by the time they reached adolescence, Iker started working out until he got a big and defined body, he was very muscular and a big hit with the girls.

On the other hand, Yuki remained small, thin, a bit effeminate, discovered a passion for fashion and identified as gay.

But despite those differences, they remained friends. They graduated, and chose the same university, Iker started studying engineering while Yuki majored in fashion, then they managed to rent an apartment in one of the dorms to be together.

Iker sometimes asked Yuki for help to dress better and surprise girls, Yuki to gain more muscle. Always helping each other.

That afternoon, they were both in a museum, it was their “afternoon together”, an occasion they set aside once a week to meet and spend time together away from everyday life and school.

— It's an interesting exhibition, isn't it? – Yuki murmured as they moved through the area of ancient cultures. Some sculptures, remains of ruins, contraptions.

— Yes, there are interesting things – Iker advanced next to him, between them there was a difference of at least 30 cm in height. Iker was almost two meters tall while Yuki was only 1.65 cm tall. And nothing to say about the difference between their musculatures or even their styles of dress, the Mexican wore more sporty styles while the Asian loved bright colors and more daring styles.

They ended up arriving at a remote area of the museum, still unfinished. Apparently there was no one watching, so Iker pushed aside a pair of curtains towards an exhibit in progress.

— I don't think we should do that – the smaller and more timid Yuki muttered.

— Come on, it's something new. Aren't you excited?

Yuki was silent for a while until she finally let out a sigh, nodding.

— Ok... Let's go.

They crossed the threshold before the bigger one dropped the cloth, the room was dimly lit, there were some pots, instruments and remains of rocks, nothing interesting or new. Until Iker seemed to notice something.

— Look at that – the brunet smiled as he saw something in the center of the room. It was some kind of mirror, its frame was made of stone, it looked quite old.

Although that wasn't the only thing special about it, it was also a kind of double mirror, but it was translucent in a very faint way. You could see your reflection and at the same time, barely see the other side.

The guys, excited by this discovery, stood in front of the mirror, each on one side. They looked at it curiously before they began to move in circles, examining.

— Wow... Where do you think it's from?

— No idea, but it looks ancient, probably one of the first cultures – Iker murmured.

— Is that so? How smart you are for studying engineering – Yuki joked with him.

— Excuse me, Mr. designer, maybe this is too much for your brain.

The guys began to joke with each other, though in a way the tone of the jokes began to rise.

—Surely you couldn't stand a day in my shoes – Yuki sentenced while looking at him with a mocking smile.

— Rather you couldn't be in mine, your manicure would be ruined by taking one of my weights.

— And your clumsy hands would ruin my designs.

— You wouldn't even know how to flirt with a girl.

— And you'd be scared to mess with another man.

Unnoticed, the mirror seemed to become charged with a very dim light.

— Surely you couldn't be in my body.

Iker whispered with narrowed eyes.

— You wouldn't last a week in mine.

Unnoticed by the boys. An energy shot out from under the mirror towards both of their feet. After that, they both walked out of the room as if nothing had happened.

And the rest of the day went on as normal, they went back to their room, had dinner, chatted for a while until they went to sleep.

In the night was when the “strange” happened. The same energy came out of their bodies and intertwined with each other, their energies were sucked and deposited into each other's body until they faded away.

The next morning, the first to wake up was Yuki. He felt strange from the first moment he opened his eyes, heavier? Had he eaten too much last night? He sat up in bed, sleepy and not seeing around him properly; he rubbed his face.

And then he felt it. He opened his eyes like plates noticing his huge brown hands, he looked around noticing that he was in Iker's room and not his own, it was filled with some sports and car posters, his weights on the floor and even the scent was totally his.

— Uh, uh... What is this?

He mumbled looking down at his pecs, weighing them, swallowing saliva. He felt huge, heavy, even silly.

Nothing compared to his old body, he was so thin and small, and overnight he went from being like this to this.

— This is wrong, this is wrong...

As he was thinking about it, he heard a familiar scream. He immediately got up to go to his room, where he saw his old body tangled in the sheets with a confused expression.

— What did you do, Yuki!? – he heard his former body say in an Asian accent. Just the way he used to talk.

He watched how he touched his body, his slender arms, her soft face, even how he took his tresses to observe them absorbed.

— Iker? – He said in her new deep voice.

— Who else would it be, silly!!!?

It was strange to see Yuki's body act like that, he was always reserved, quiet, didn't shout about almost anything. But now, it was clearly someone else who had command of his body.

The new Yuki stood up, examining himself from head to toe with a hint of disgust in his expression.

— Dude, my muscles are gone! – He could only see his thin outline. Palpating his chest to find something flat, he also touched his hips, noticing that there was the most amount of muscle there as well as on his thighs – Why does your body look like a girl's!!!?

— Shut up! Respect, I look like a Gorilla!

The New Mexican muttered.

He observed himself again in front of his friend this time, stroking his arms. He even sniffed slightly.

— Damn... Not bad.

He murmured smiling.

— Hey! Don't just take over my body like that!

— Don't you like it? Because your new body seems to say otherwise.

And indeed, it did. The new Yuki had an issue down there “down below”, he immediately covered himself with his hand, his face flushed.

— It's not my fault, it's your body!

—Well, that's weird. I don't feel like I'm lusting after some girl or something straight like that.

A smug smile appeared on her face as she stared at him.

— Get out of here!

Iker punched his former body in the arm, Yuki just let out a couple of laughs as he left the room. He returned to the room which corresponded to his body, still not believing that the two had swapped.

He had always felt comfortable being small, effeminate, very happy in his body.

But now... he felt different. Masculine, powerful, imposing. He peeked into his friend's closet, his clothes were spandex, sweatpants, compression shirts, some plaid shirts, all a far cry from his typical tops or stylish t-shirts.

He took one of the compression shirts to put it on, and strangely discovered a taste he experienced for the first time: how tight it felt.

He brought his hands back to his pecs, enjoying how wide and big they felt, he was playing with them when Iker walked in.

— Stop playing with them, they're not balls.

—They look like it.

Yuki paid attention to his old body, noticing the clothes he was wearing.

—Wow...

— Don't say anything.

The old Iker muttered a bit annoyed, now he was wearing quite “stylish” clothes, a white shirt made of what seemed to be silk, a neat pair of pants and a golden chain.

Not at all similar to what he would wear being himself, so he felt like a sort of “Barbie Girl”: with curls, nice clothes, smooth skin and perfume. He didn't even know how he ended up getting dressed up like that, it was like going into automatic mode.

— What now? – He muttered moodily.

— What do you mean, what now? – Yuki raised her eyebrow.

— Yeah. Are we going to go to our classes, lock ourselves in until we figure out how to solve this?

The opposite one was thoughtful, then he swallowed saliva as he remembered something.

— No, no... I can't skip today.

— What? Why?

— I have a very important presentation today, me lleva la chingada – he said in a perfect Mexican accent. Which stunned both of them. The silence was awkward until Yuki spoke again – It's about my dressmaking subject, I have to present my final project.

— The dress you've been working on for weeks?

— Yes, yes. It's my final project, it's 100% of the grade.

The now huge boy sat up in bed, overwhelmed. The remaining one came over to try to comfort him.

— Then I'll go in your place.

— You don't know anything about dresses, the only thing you know is how to take them off – he muttered overwhelmed.

— Hey, don't overdo it. I'm not as dumb as you think. Besides, if this happened – Iker pointed to his clothes – Don't you think I can manage to present your project?

They looked at each other for a while, to which the now dark-haired man let out a resigned sigh.

— All right, I'll trust you.

They both ended up leaving the apartment. Yuki heading to the engineering department while Iker to the design department, making a promise to try to be as similar to their new bodies as possible. Iker didn't want to see his body acting feminine, nor did Yuki want to see hers acting like a guy with no brain cells.

Iker advanced through the corridors, still getting used to feeling small, he felt that his gait had even changed, as if he now “floated”, before he felt that his steps echoed everywhere because of his musculature, but now, he was as agile as a feather.

He was turning the corner towards the living room, he had about 15 minutes to spare to get there. When he ran into a guy.

— Hi, Yuki – a muscular guy seemed to stop him in his tracks.

— Hi, Adam – it was hard for him not to be surprised when he recognized the boy's name.

— How are you? You didn't call me last night – the opposite gently closed the distance while staring at him with a flirtatious smile.

— I was... busy – he whispered as he watched him approach, but he seemed to be petrified. He wanted to move but couldn't, he just watched him getting closer and closer.

— It's a pity... – Iker felt a series of things seeing that boy flirting with him exactly as he used to do with girls – I really missed your company – he murmured, starting to caress his curls.

And when he least expected it. He kissed him.

For a second he felt disgusted to feel another man kissing him, but the more the seconds passed, it felt so natural...

He kissed him at a slow start, but he wanted more, he wanted more, he needed more. Iker turned up the intensity of the kisses, almost occupying his tongue as he held the guy against himself.

— Wow, someone looks excited. What's wrong? You look different today.

— Nothing – he mumbled with a silly grin on his face – I guess it's a new day.

They chatted for a while, kissed some more and he even liked the feeling when Adam grabbed him by the waist to hold on to him.

He ended up going into Yuki's classroom, and finally presented his project. It was as if his knowledge in engineering had been replaced by knowledge in fashion, tailoring, dressmaking, he knew exactly what fabric his friend had used, the type of closure, embossing, the falls. He had even achieved a perfect grade in that exhibition.

On the other hand, Yuki was anxiously sitting in his classroom, until a couple of Iker's friends arrived.

— What's up, bro? – the typical stereotypical brainless jock approached him, surrounded by at least 3 other guys just like him.

Yuki was silent for a microsecond before a strange outburst came from him.

— Bro! How are you?

He stood up, bumped fists with the guy and even his pectorals with each other. He never thought he would do anything so... Masculine.

And he even did it with the other three, as if it was something natural in him. He talked to them, and a series of sports knowledge, Iker's conquests, and more topics outside of him, came naturally out of his mouth, in addition to an extremely masculine personality where most of the vocabulary was based on: “Bro”.

— And today you will see Monica?

His mind immediately went into action, apparently Iker had forgotten to mention that he had a date today.

— Yep, bro – he nodded – We'll go for a coffee in an hour.

He was nervous inside himself, what would he do when he was with her? Would he feel attraction? Would he flirt with her? What if they ended up entangled in...?

No, no. He tried not to think about it. His class moved quickly. He had always been bad at math, but now he seemed to have mastered the subject from top to bottom, even complex physics topics, he knew it all.

His subject was over, and apparently the appointment he had pending was five minutes away.

— Good luck, bro! Monica certainly is a good catch, she has good “attributes” – the guys laughed to each other to leave the room and leave him alone.

Yuki felt overwhelmed, but he knew that this was something important for Iker, so he was forced to go. He ended up arriving at the cafe and saw the girl waiting for him: red-haired, slim, she was quite cute.

The boy didn't feel... anything, though. He admired her beauty, no doubt, but he didn't feel attracted.

He sat in the chair across from her and they both began to talk.

For hours.

Strangely, Yuki felt a great friendship with the girl, as if the chemistry between them flowed naturally.

— You're so funny, Iker! I thought you'd be an airhead like all your friends.

— Well, that's me, I guess – he smiled slightly. His heart was beating fast, what if she was already trying to kiss him? He wasn't feeling any heterosexual “urges” in Iker's body. That was worrying him, he had felt an automatic mode with his friends, with his subjects and knowledge? So why wasn't it happening now?

— I'm glad you're like that. But... I think we've been getting along really well and I don't want to ruin that, would you rather we stayed friends? – the girl smiled softly. And that was quite a relief for him. Yuki nodded.

— I'd love to.

They chatted for a while more until they said goodbye. Yuki thought about going back home but he felt anxious, like he will need something to be well, so he thought about going to the gym. He knew where Iker went to work out, so he immediately set off.

And again on autopilot he began to exercise, loving the way he felt his muscles pumping, how they swelled and became big as they flexed. How much he could carry!

Even how stinky his body was starting to get, how the sweat soaked into his clothes to make them damp and clingy. He felt ecstatic, lost in all those sensations.

He was powerful, big, huge, his pecs were so fat and thick! What could he say about his arms, they were fantastic without a doubt!

He smiled egocentrically, seeing himself through the reflection. There was hardly anyone in the gym, so he fearlessly lifted his armpit to start sniffing it, losing himself in his senses.

— Pff... How stinky... – he muttered. He stuck out his tongue, starting to lick himself, enjoying both the aroma and the taste of his sweat. He caressed his pectorals, he knew that partly all that acting was wrong, that was the body of Iker, his best friend.

But geez... He wasn't blind. He knew what a great catch Iker was even if he wasn't gay. But he wouldn't say it out loud in front of him, much less that he'd had more than one dream involving him.

And now he had him all to himself.

He continued with that exploration session until he was finally bored. He picked up his things and left in the direction of the apartment.

Where Iker had a “curious” moment as well. His rest of the day had been relaxed, taking classes, talking with Yuki's friends.

He discovered how interesting he now found fashion, pop music and things that although he didn't dislike, he didn't find so relevant either.

He even took a few “cute” pictures throughout the day, he was liking the feeling of being this small.

Even how other men saw him, besides the clear fact that he had made out with Adam even walking out of class.

He felt an urge that seemed born. He'd seen a few girls, even Yuki's friends, several of them he found pretty and desirable in more ways than one when he was himself, but now. He didn't pay even the slightest attention to the areas he used to look at when it came to a girl.

On the contrary, now he did that with guys: he noticed their pecs, their big muscles, their biceps. He had seen a pretty muscular guy in shorts and a tank top and almost went crazy right there.

When he got home, he found the apartment completely alone, although he didn't really care, he went into his new room right away to check his closet.

And started trying on clothes. He admired Yuki's style, some of his outfits looked cute, but he had never thought of wearing something like that.

But now he was wearing each one of his outfits, trying different tops, sweaters, tight pants, he even ventured to try Yuki's underwear, some of them were really revealing...

But he liked the silhouette what his body was adopting now, how her hips or her buttocks looked. The more he went through his closet and drawers, he ended up finding something: a toy.

It looked elongated, somewhat thick. He had never occupied something like that, if another kind of toys a little more in line with his sexuality, since he had never thought of putting something “in there”.

But now he felt an urge, too strong to ignore, it was like that urge to exercise that he had being him.

He lay back on the bed, carefully settled the toy against his entrance and gently let it go. He let out a sigh and a confused gasp at the sensation it gave; he thought it would hurt.

But it seemed like Yuki already had experience with it when he noticed how he managed to enter without any problems.

Iker almost screamed at the top of his lungs when he finally found that sensitive spot, he almost seemed to see stars. He immediately began to pound the area like crazy, pulling the tool in and out, he was anxiously moving against the bed, sweating and with a flushed face.

It was all chaos, he lost complete track of his surroundings, and that's why he didn't even notice that Yuki had come home.

Yuki was about to say hello out loud when he heard noises coming from her room, he didn't even take the moment to listen anymore, he knew exactly what was going on.

His heart pounding with excitement as he took step after step towards the open door of his room, he peeked his head out. And then he saw him:

His body moving against the sheets, tangled at his feet and no clothes on him, his hands wrapped around his manhood, the toy skewered. His white skin filled with beads of sweat, the scent alone that permeated the entire room...

It was like activating something inside him.

— Y-Yuki! – Iker opened his eyes in fright when he felt the hands of his opponent against his body and felt him on top of him.

— Shhh...

— I-it's n-it's not what it looks like, I-I...

— Save it.

Yuki muttered gravely, he grabbed his former body's hips to feel his skin, which made Iker let out a mute gasp.

— W-wait. W-what w-what are you w-what are you doing?

The former Mexican closed his eyes as he enjoyed the sensation of the huge brown hands resting on him.

— I told you... I don't feel anything straight in this body.

And with that, he stamped his now lips with his old ones, enjoying the unbridled sensation of kissing and touching between the two.

He got rid as best he could of everything that was in his way so that they were skin against skin. He kept kissing him, feeling Iker's nervous hands work their way down his pecs, which he played with like a fool, pressing the reliefs.

Yuki grabbed the toy to pull it out all at once, which caused a yelp from Iker.

— W-what do you plan to do?

—Shhh... Let yourself go.

He mused until he skewered his manhood into him all at once, this caused Iker to roll his eyes with a goofy grin, almost as if his brain cells were melting. It was a racket, the sound of flesh hitting flesh, the gasps and grunts, the grinding of wood, the slender legs of Yuki's original body wrapped around Iker's thick hips.

— Ah!

— Tell me Iker.

— W-what?

— Tell me Iker, Yuki.

The Mexican hesitated a moment to answer, though his brain was fucked at that point.

— Yes, Iker! Yes!

The two of them stayed like that for almost the whole night, until they woke up hugging each other.

They didn't even think about how to solve that "problem", they both felt comfortable as they were, there was no need to go back to being who they were.

Iker settled completely into being Yuki. He became an even better designer, hung out with his friends, enjoyed his new career and all the opportunities in it.

Yuki also became completely comfortable with being Iker. He loved exercise, sports, spending time with his new friends, even if they were a bit “dorky” from what he was used to.

And even better, he enjoyed his new boyfriend. Now everything was as it should be, just between them.

———

I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you liked it, don't forget to follow it and share it so more people can discover it.

I'm always open to suggestions and ideas, so if you have any fantasy or scenario in mind, let me know in the comments or in messages.

See you in the next story... Who knows what body you will occupy this time?

———

[hrrtshape]

If u had to write a shifting essay with 500 word limit, how would u write? What would u write?

Can we see a little shifting essay from u.

my silly little shifting gospel. how i walked on water (and into another reality).

let's start with the premise that reality is less a fixed structure and more a negligent landlord. a shoddy little shoebox of perception held together with cognitive duct tape, flickering between objective and subjective like a dying lightbulb. that’s the thing about shifting!!!! once you realise the scaffolding of your own existence is essentially papier-mâché, all it takes is a particularly determined gust of wind to knock you into another version of the same tragicomedy.

now, the theory. ahem. where are my fancy glasses. quantum jumping, reality shifting, reality immersion. pick your poison, they all circle the same drain. the idea that you can, enough intention, enough delusional self-assurance, step sideways into a different narrative. maybe it’s a marauders-era england where the air permanently smells like ink and chocolate. maybe it’s versailles, a perpetual dusk of powdered wigs and carefully orchestrated infidelity. maybe it’s a twin peaks of your own design, all red curtains and whispered prophecies. because, you know, the owls are here or whatever. regardless, the mechanics remain the same: you assume the role, you construct the thoughts, and if you do it confidently enough, reality takes a bow and lets you through the stage door.

people will ask. for obvious reasons. (how) does it work? which is a question with the same absurdity as ‘is art real?’ does shifting work the way a microwave works? no. but does it work the way a poem does? the way a performance does? the way love, grief, nostalgia work, messy, unquantifiable, felt more than seen? yes. shifting is not the scientific method, it's not like it's peer-reviewed. it is the theatre of the mind, and the critics are you, yourself, and the occasional manifestation coach with a three-hour youtube video explaining how water holds memory.

the brain is an unreliable narrator at best, a full-blown method actor at worst. we already shift, constantly. slipping into reverie mid-conversation, feeling like a different person in a different city, mourning something that never happened but should have. so why not take the con further? why not dress the part, rehearse the lines, make the lie so elaborate it turns into truth? manifestation is nothing more than the stubborn refusal to acknowledge the existing terms and conditions of being alive.

it is, to be perfectly clear, deeply unserious. and yet. so is the universe. einstein called time an illusion, descartes doubted his own hands, and let’s not even start on plato’s cave allegory, which is basically just ‘the truman show’ for ancient greeks. if reality itself is built on a shaky premise, what crime is it to write yourself a better one?

shifting is the art of treating reality like an improv scene. yes, and. yes, and i will slip between timelines like a card shark palming an ace. yes, and i will recalibrate the coordinates of my own existence because what is the alternative? to sit in the audience while the play goes on without me? to let the director’s cut be final? no. absolutely not. i want to be the one with the flowers in my hands.

in the end, shifting is not about physics, nor is it about dreams. it is about authorship. about stealing the pen back from the hands of whatever lazy ghostwriter has been in charge of your script thus far. it is not escapism. well, if you wish it to be, then so it shall be. but. it is creative direction. you are not running away, you are rewriting.

and if you do it right, if you really commit, you just might wake up one day in a world that finally feels like yours.

take a bow. curtain call. lights out.

[httpsserene]

𝐬𝐧𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐭 | 𝐬𝐢𝐩 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞 | 𝐜𝐡. 𝟐 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 '𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲-𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞

poly! carlando x reader | read chapter one here. | join taglist

˖♡ - ̗̀ ⇢ this is the entire intro to the second chapter. in the outline, it's called "the first strike." any predictions? well, you're in for a ride, let me tell you that. full chapter two coming soon. tysm for being patient and understanding x

On this Monday in May, you’re awake before the sun, watching it rise over Madrid as you drive to Golf La Moraleja. This summer begins the same as those before it, with your coworkers complaining about being required to attend a meeting—filled with the same information you’ve all heard every year since you first started—and, holding it so early in the morning. 

Your eyes ache from lack of sleep but it doesn’t hinder you from complaining all the same; returning employees should be allowed to skip the first meeting of the season as it’s more of an orientation for the new hires. Marco, your boss, disagrees. He says that senior employees need to be present to set a good example of the standards and expectations for the rookies. 

You’re unsure if a group of seven, sleep-deprived, twenty-something-year-old, beverage cart drivers could be described as a “good example.” At least there’s a breakfast spread. The seven of you can be good examples of how to take advantage of a free meal.

As Marco drones on about procedures and policies, your mind drifts to the late-night you had. 

Your eyes burn with exhaustion because you missed out on a few hours of sleep to talk with your boyfriends. You listened as Lando ranted about how disappointing his car performed this weekend and Carlos still seemed surprised that he managed to hold onto fifth place with a time penalty. Neither of the boys wanted to sweat out more of their body weight in water in a packed, humid, Miami club after a particularly demanding race, but you convinced them to at least have a drink or two with Fernando Alonso to celebrate his podium finish.

You may not have the most in-depth Formula One knowledge, but you know that dragging that Aston Martin onto the podium is an astounding feat. Carlos admires the man greatly, even if he pretends to be salty about being the second-favorite Spanish F1 driver. Lando respects Alonso largely as well, he talks kindly about the time he spent shadowing him at McLaren.

You styled their outfits for the night with sleepy eyes. Carlos endlessly showered you with compliments every time he glanced at you through the screen of his laptop. The butterflies in your stomach fluttered at every endearment; you believed in the hermosa’s and linda’s with each repetition, even as your phone mirrored the image of you: makeup-free, bonnet, and pimple patch-riddled.

Lando (after Carlos kicked him out of the bathroom for being unable to control his wandering hands) splayed across the hotel bed on his stomach, the love ? —the longing he has for you is visible through the pixels. His feet kicked back and forth behind him mindlessly as he attentively listened to you ramble about the authorship credit you received in a textbook for research you did last year.

You sighed deeply. If only the world knew how these two men ended the call by blowing kisses through the screen, whining about having to wait another couple of months until they get to see you in person. 

If the world knew, maybe that woman in the club wouldn’t have tried (and failed) to make a move on your boys.

When your alarm sounded for today’s early morning meeting, you awoke to the sight of your phone being spammed with Twitter links and texts with your name in all caps.

The hashtag Carlando is trending on Twitter because of an anonymous submission to a gossip account that details Lando and Carlos “getting cozy” with a woman in a club. Thankfully, the anonymous submission was proven false—with photo evidence, at that. 

The first photo caused a sense of dread to build within you. It shows a blond woman standing next to them at the bar, her beady eyes predatory as she stares up at Carlos with a disgusting smirk and her hand is offensively outstretched, tugging at the collar of his polo. Lando, who’s standing next to the Spaniard, looks at her with an expression of shock and disbelief, while Carlos only offers her his trademarked confused stare.

The second photo transformed that sense of dread into a feeling of relief, pity, amusement, and vicarious embarrassment. 

The image captured the woman dropping her hand away with an annoyed frown and a sharp glare thrown at Lando, whose disposition has switched from surprised to unimpressed, illustrated by his well-known disgruntled nose scrunch. Carlos isn’t looking at the woman anymore, he’s taken a step backward and is staring at Lando. His hand is clasped on the younger man’s shoulder and he’s seemingly trying to pull him away from the woman.

You wish there were more photos. 

The online consensus is that the woman in the photo needs to change her entire identity if she wishes to have another peaceful day on Earth. The F1-adjacent internet is clowning this poor girl about her seduction attempt on Carlos going so terribly that Lando had to put a stop to it. There’s a smaller portion of people saying that Lando couldn’t handle the sight of somebody trying to flirt with Carlos right in front of him—they’re closer to being correct than they know.

Nevertheless, you kind of feel sad for the woman: waking up after a night out with a nasty hangover only to find out you’re being lambasted on social media because there’s photo evidence of you being rejected after a terrible attempt at flirting. You refuse to imagine it; seeing her experience is enough for you. 

While it’s early morning in Spain, it’s midnight in Florida. The two men are asleep and unaware of their current trending status. Hopefully, that will last until you’ve returned home from this staff meeting and taken a long nap. But, damn, you’re dying to know exactly what Lando said that had her looking so insulted. 

You jolt to attention at a tap on your shoulder.

“Muchacha, the meeting is finished,” Isa’s eyes match your exhaustion, “Were you even paying attention?”

“Does it matter if I was?” You ask, heaving yourself out of your seat and waiting for your friend to do the same. “We’ve had the handbook read to us for the last five years. Zoning out during this orientation doesn’t matter to me.”

“¿Perdóname?”

You turn around to see one of the new hires addressing you. The first thing you notice is that he’s tall, like an American basketball player, type of tall. The second thing you notice is that he can’t be any older than twenty; unless he’s lucky enough to be so babyfaced. He’s tall and lanky, sporting sharp cheekbones, a nose that reminds you of Carlos, a pair of eyes similar to Lando’s, and an artfully styled mess of dirty blonde curls atop his head. Objectively speaking, he’d make a hell of a supermodel.

“I’m Alejandro, or Alé. I wanted to introduce myself before I started training with you tomorrow,” he states kindly, with a broad smile.

Zoning out during this orientation suddenly mattered very much. Last summer—sometime in June, before Carlos and Lando reappeared—you offered to train an employee if Marco needed the extra help. You must have missed the part of the meeting when he assigned Alejandro to you.

“Oh! Yes, sorry,” you introduce yourself to the kid kindly, apologizing mindlessly, “I am very tired and I was not paying attention—don’t tell Marco that. I’m supposed to be setting a good example for the new kids.”

He laughs, “I think you are a great example of reminding everyone to sleep for at least eight hours every night.”

“I can’t disagree with that, can I?” You smile politely, “Well, I promise I’ll be a better role model when training officially starts. You’re stuck with me for a month, right?”

“I would not say I am ‘stuck’ with you—that would be mean,” Alejandro snorts lightly, “But, yes. I will be riding along with you for a month. Marco says that I’m lucky to be paired with you.”

“Did he?”

“Sí. He said you’re one of his best cart servers and that you bring in the most tips.”

Isa snorts behind you. Without needing to look, you reach behind to smack her on the back of the head. He doesn’t need to know that your secret relationship with two Formula One drivers is responsible for the extra money you made last year.

“I’m a young woman working on a golf course. Which, is why I make plenty of tips.”

Alejandro hums, raising a brow, “Really?”

“There’s more than a few sleazy men that come out here willing to throw cash at anyone who wears a smile, skirt, and pigtails.”

“Ah, well,” he shrugs jokingly, his picture-perfect smile relaxing into something natural, “I do not have enough hair for pigtails and could not pull off a skirt. I do think I can manage a smile.”

Squinting, you survey his form, “Don’t worry; there are men out there who prefer the sight of boys in tight shirts and short shorts instead of girls in short skirts. Ask Ryan or Rob. They make more money than me some days!”

“Is this your fancy plan to get me into tighter clothes?” Oh. He’s misunderstood you.

“Wow,” you deadpan, “You caught me. No, niño, I’m only ‘training’ you on how to make your wallet very happy. If you are uncomfortable with showing a little thigh, that’s okay.”

“I’m a model,” He scoffs with a smirk (you called it, him being a model), “of course, I do not mind showing more skin; however it looks like you want to see me in less clothing, as well.”

Your mouth drops open at the insinuation. Behind you, Isa full-body laughs herself to tears. The rest of your cart team—Lucas, Rob, Ryan, Sofia, and Steph—turns to look at Isa, wanting to know what she finds so funny. The entire clubhouse will know that the new kid tried to flirt with you by the end of the day. 

You shake your head fervently, “Woah, uh, no. ¡Dios mío! I hope I never see what’s under your clothes, full offense. I’m happily in a relationship! Also, not that it matters to me since I’m not interested in you, but—you are way too young for me, niño. It would be best to respect that and forget this part of the conversation ever happened, or it will be an awkward month of training.”

He immediately loses the smirk, stepping backward and raising his hands placatingly, apologetic, “¡Lo siento! I did not mean to make you uncomfortable. I assumed you were—well, it does not matter, I assumed you meant more, and that is my fault. Pero, I am not a kid–I am nineteen.”

You and the rest of the eavesdropping beverage cart crew all gasp, abhorred at just how young he is. Does this mean you are all too old to be riding around serving drinks on a golf course?

“Nineteen?! What year were you born in? Never mind, don’t tell me—it’ll make me depressed. Look, niño, you’re forgiven—I could see how telling someone to show off their…assets, could be seen as flirting. So, I’m sorry, too. This is incredibly awkward, let’s never speak of this again?”

“Yes, I agree,” he nods vigorously, “But—Do you have to call me ‘niño?’”

“It fits, though? You are the youngest cart driver we have. Speaking of cart drivers—what’s your phone number? Lucas has to add you to the work chat.”

Your coworkers introduce themselves to Alejandro without hesitation. Conversation flows seamlessly as you all begin to catch up on what’s occurred in your lives since last summer. Rob’s sister-in-law exposed his older brother’s affair over Christmas Dinner, Sofia’s younger sister is pregnant with twins, and Lucas graduated with a degree in journalism. Midway through Ryan’s explanation of how his car was stolen three times in two months, the last two new hires shyly join your discussion. Laura and Giulia are training with Steph and Ryan, respectively. You and the other senior drivers begin to whine about old age when they reveal that they're nineteen, like Alejandro.

Isa catches a ride home with you and she asks if you're going to tell Carlos and Lando about how your trainee tried to make a move on you. You won’t tell them because there’s no reason to. Alejandro apologized and backed off—that’s all that matters to you. Why tell your boyfriends that the kid you’re going to be training tried to flirt with you? It won’t do anything more than make them jealous, probably, and that’s unnecessary.

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© httpsserene - do not repost.

[mariamariquinha]

I saw a post on Instagram, well before the Superbowl, that involved Beyoncé and Kendrick Lamar's positions in the music industry. Furthermore, it was said that their activism was biased, since they profited a lot from these statements (or manifestos).

I'm a big fan of Beyoncé; even though I'm not 100% into the world of rap, Kendrick is one of my favourites. Maybe what I reflect here comes a little from an opinion built based on my personal taste, but I understand that beyond whether we like their music or not, they have an impact, and that's what I wanted to say.

Two things happened in these two weeks: Beyoncé won the first AOTY of her career with Cowboy Carter and Kendrick Lamar performed at the Superbowl. Let's start with Beyoncé.

Beyoncé has had COUNTLESS valid AOTY albums (ESPECIALLY Lemonade, sorry Adele), and she is the BIGGEST Grammy WINNER IN HISTORY. Like it or hate it, she is THE INDUSTRY. She made it. And she deserves it.

I saw people saying that she didn't deserve it because Billie Eilish deserved more. This always happens, but when people justify this discontent, you hear things like 'lyricism' or 'impact on the charts', which are valid arguments, but when we're talking about Album of the Year, shouldn't we also think about the social impact that this work has? Guys, I loved Billie's album, but it wasn't AOTY material with Cowboy Carter on the way.

CMAs

In 2016, in the midst of promoting Lemonade, she performed with the Dixies at the CMAs. Do you know what happened? In addition to her being boycotted (with her performance excluded from the awards platforms), SEVERAL country artists were visibly uncomfortable with her presence there, singing an AUTHORAL country song, with the, so to speak, 'personas non gratas' of the country industry.

This influenced the acts she is currently doing. Beyoncé, with all the influence she has, could come with the speech of white people who deny the existence of racism or opine on how black people should react to racism with indifference, but she decided to show how people of color have been carrying entertainment and art on their shoulders, and how the boycott at the CMAs only reinforced that 'veiled' r*cist artists were bothered by people of color who claim authorship of their own culture; then, they are a threat.

She made a country album. In references, Linda Martell, Chuck Berry, Willie Nelson, Dolly Parton, Sister Rosetta Tharpe and, among other people, black country artists who are new to the scene. Do you know the social impact of this? Do you understand that, no matter how many years pass, Beyoncé will also be remembered for using her influence to raise an issue that she might otherwise have been indifferent about (because she has money, success and people love her), and winning a Grammy for a mostly white and biased genre?

I think my point is clear. I love Billie and I think she's a great artist, but in the current context, in the middle of 2025, there was someone putting uncomfortable things in the light, and that person was Beyoncé.

Now, let's go over Kendrick.

2024 was a year in which he was on the top, among other things, for his beef with Drake. Look, I'm not even going to get into the merits of the diss, I never liked Drake (Brazilians in particular have some problems with him) and I've always really admired Kendrick as an artist, so I don't especially want to talk about how he just massacred Drake's reputation and career: everyone knows that.

Again, he could focus the entire intention of that Superbowl on the fight, and gain more prominence beyond the Grammys he won in relation to it. He did that too. Heavens, it was divine. But he (and his team) looked at the guest list in the VIP area, and focused on the type of person on one of the teams competing in that championship (I don't know a thing about that sport, but imagine my lack of surprise when I discovered the character of certain… names from that institution), and said "we should address that".

Some of the biggest, most talented and successful black artists in the US was there. With what justification, full of discrimination, can people on the other side turn around and say that Kendrick is irrelevant? Or that Samuel L. Jackson isn't important? Or that, fuck, Serena Williams isn't just badass? Of course her presence at the performance had more to do with Drake, but she was there, and she embraced the message.

Kendrick looked at the face of the country, at the largest audience in America, and said: why don't you all go fuck yourselves while I rub it in your face that we made this happen? I don't use middle ground when it comes to this, and we know that fire is met with fire.

What do I mean by all this?

Distractions from our culture are welcome and help us keep going, but this is a time of revolution, and this time the right people have the right platforms. At a time of uncertainty, explicit discrimination and the rebirth of a very specific movement, having powerful voices that enhance the people's speeches is more than a nod to the struggles of the lower classes, but a poke at the higher classes.

It's about shouting out what's wrong. It's about saying 'you're an idiot who thinks you're going to win'. It's about saying that you don't hit someone thinking that they won't hit you back. It's about reinforcing how dumb, insignificant and politically limited they are, who rely on conspiracy theories versus a community that has facts and history on its side.

But more than that, we are clearly reinforced that, regardless of anything, they cannot win.

And if you still have any doubts:

[caninemillimeter]

What? No they don't. The most devout religious people believe that their holy books are infallible revelation from a perfect being that both defines and equals absolute unchanging truth. They don't do a historical scholarly-academic reading of the texts, they believe in capital-g God, they believe that that God has given them his perfect preserved word, and thus they unquestioningly believe what they read.

Not every devout religious person is devoutly a progressive reform jew or a unitarian universalist. For many religious people, many more than you will want to admit, their being religious is in fact their problem. You can find enough ex-fundamentalist atheists of varying religious and cultural background who will tell you that what convinced them that maybe we shouldn't put gay people to death wasn't hearing some watered-down liberal sermon from a gay-friendly church (who they believed were also demonic evil sinners) but finding out that none of that religion shit is fucking real.

an extremely orthodox, fervently zionist man was still the one to teach me about historical debates surrounding authorship in religious contexts. you are aware there are literally thousands of years of scholarship on this. still centuries if you want to stay to modern literature or european traditions. this is why apocryphya exists as a concept. you are so far off the mark that you are not even hitting the target, and you think that your biases are objective truth rather than the truth filtered through your own perception. and you will continue to just make shit up to respond to the religious person in your head instead of having the conversation that i, the non-religious scholar, am actually trying to have. do you think no christian has ever called me a faggot before? you think plenty of people in all these groups we're talking about haven't looked at me like a tranny freak? but i understand that fucking magic didn't make them that way, social phenomenons and political power did. get your head out of your ass and start actually fighting a useful axis of oppression that can't be easily swapped in for some other form of authoritarian moralism

[quetzalpapalotl]

What are your thoughts on jro allegedly saying trepan took Megatrons words and he can't write? Ive seen some people talking about it and tbh? I don't get it.

Well, Trepan taking away Megatron's words so he couldn't write any more texts that could get the population to revolt was the plan. But it didn't work. Here is that scene:

We can see how certainly does some damage to Megatron's vocabulary. But I don't think this supports the idea that Megatron became incapable of writing. Trepan himself says he has barely scratched the surface before he's interrupted, he is still capable of speech, so even if he lost some words he can probably still relearn them or find another way of saying what he means (bc this certainly didn't erase any of his anti-establishment beliefs). Like, Megatron is portrayed by JRo as someone who is pretty eloquent, there's nothing anywhere that indicates he struggles to communicate.

If you mean that Megatron is physically incapable of writing, I think that doesn't make any sense. Again not all his words were taken and he's still capable of talking, which really doesn't serve the purposes of the state as he can still communicate dangerous messages. Even if he couldn't write, he can still do recordings or dictate to other people that can write for him, but that wouldn't take away his authorship of those texts. And I mean, he can read, idk how cybertronians brains work, but it seems weird that he would be able to read but couldn0t learn to write. You'd think such a thing would come up, especially in regards to his captainship, with Magnus explicitly saying that Megatron read all his reports unlike Rodimus.

Note that JRo has a tweet where he says Megatron has terrible handwriting and that "Noted, with thanks" is the only thing he would bother to write neatly. But I want to make my argument based on the text and Magnus used the word "say" here which doesn't necessarily imply a written word. But Megatron has definitively authored things after the Messatine incident with Trepan, like poetry

And you may think, hey this is all way further in the timeline. Maybe he got someone to unfuck his brain despite his fear of mnemosurgery, he did have Lobe working for him. And yeah, except, Trepan was not the end of his political writing. Like let's think for a moment, Towards Peace is basically the Decepticon manifetso and one of the most prominent aspects of Decepticon ideology is the belief in Cybertronian supremacy over organic races. Like, that's a very very very important thing in the plot. I would think it unlikely that Towards peace doesn't include any anto-organic sentiment. In fact, when Optimus makes Megatron read a speech where he renounces Decepticonism (that would then get attached to the newer editions of Towards Peace) so that Cons all over the galaxy will calm down, what he specifically focuses on is this idea of mechanical superiority

And we never see what miner!Megatron thought of organics, so you could say he had a negative opinion of them even then, but I still don't think "kill all aliens" would be a position that Megatron would earnestly get behing. And anyway we do have this explicit quote from Towards Peace

This is just not something a pre-Trepan Megatron who did not want to use violence and did not want to be a leader would write. And I don't know why I bother with any of this when we actually do have explicit confirmation that Towards Peace includes stuff written after the Messatine years. Because they literally say so on the first page of issue #34. The same issue that shows Trepan trying to get rid of Megatron's words

So yeah, Megatron can write. He kept doing it after Trepan. Anything else contradicts the text.

The narrative purpose of Trepan wasn't to make it so Megatron couldn't spread his idead anymore, but to be one of the many violences Megatron suffers at the hands of the powers that be that would change his focus on life. And also to give him a deep fear of anyone messing with his mind, which plays a role in his Mtmte arc where he worries that the reason he feels he has changed is because fool's energon can alter someone's personality as a side effect. In issue #35 Megatron does express worry that Messatine changed him and took something from him, but doesn't sound sure, so he's probably talking about a more moral quality rather than something as concrete as beaing able to write, which one would know for sure it happened.

[gallantblade]

The thing about Homestuck is that the way it grapples with increasingly arcane and bizarre forms of identity issues ends up just being exactly what plurality is like. Especially for fictives and factives. If you're in enough plural spaces you'll know a thousand people struggling to live up to fictional archetypes, at least a few dozen people coping with feeling like an extraneous duplicate of someone more relevant, a few dozen more who were explicitly created for a purpose they've either abandoned or outlived, and maybe even a guy with so many issues he might as well be Dirk Strider incarnate. Everyone has complicated relationships with authorship. All of your friends are insane but you love them anyway.

And at the end of the day it's up to you to make something of it. And also Vriska Serket is there.

[the-berries-and-the-plums]

birch trees is such a sweet song, and the innocent, youthful tone makes me think susan’s romanticism—her need to experience life as a story—comes from a much younger, more vulnerable part of her. rolling up birch tree bark like a cigar and using it to whistle a birdsong isn’t just poetic flourish; it’s play, like something a grandparent might teach a young child. susan, distant from her grandmama growing up, perhaps never got to have that kind of childhood experience. now, she is free to provide that joy and magic of play to herself. even common annoyances, like getting gravel in your shoe, are rewritten as moments of magic and whimsy, personifying the gravel as “nibbling on your toes.” in happy/crazy, she expresses how much she loves the freedom to “laugh and play and sing and swing,” now that “the world is away”,—not just an embrace of joy, but a reclamation of something lost.

i think that her need to be part of a grand, whimsical story (real af btw) probably comes from childhood. her ability to effortlessly access this childlike wonder, to see magic in the everyday, to shape her life into a storybook fable—this has probably always been how she protects herself from uncertainty, both moral and existential (“nonfiction is harder than fiction”). narrativizing isn’t just how she makes sense of things; it’s how she holds onto that younger self who still feels safest in the immersive, magical embrace of a good story, shielding her from being swallowed by grief and uncertainty. it’s also probably why she became a novelist, drawn as she was to the allure of storytelling. the tragedy is that in doing so, she also walls herself off from real connection. because to let life happen outside the boundaries of a controlled story is to risk pain, to risk being a character instead of the author—reacting instead of deciding, swept along instead of shaping. but stories are meant to be shared; they are fundamentally about connection. for susan, they often become a fortress (a clochán?) rather than a bridge.

this part of her is terrified of losing control of her own story, which is why she chooses to divorce julian rather than follow him, even though she has no real reason for staying in new york. if she moves for julian, she’s neither the author nor the main character of the story anymore; she’s a secondary character in his. for someone whose sense of self is so deeply tied to authorship, this isn’t just a practical or emotional dilemma—it’s a fundamental threat to her identity. for this part of her, co-creating a story with julian—one of their move, rather than his move—is not even an option; there must be a singular, undisputed truth.

but this part of her isn’t inherently wrong, or regressive, or unhealthy. we can see that this part isn’t just about protection; it’s deeply creative and generative. it’s what allows her to find joy and pleasure, even in the middle of the trauma of a global pandemic, to feel connected to her grandmama in a way she was never able to before. the cause of her pain and tormented rumination isn’t this part of her—it’s the way she pushes it away, pathologizes it (“trying to trace the tumor,” “the demon inside of me”), demands justification for it (“why am i like this?”), shames it (“i know that i shouldn’t be happy”).

maybe if susan can “dance” with this part of herself (her ‘wolf’), she can help it to become “unstuck” from its rigid habits, to recognize that now, as an adult, she has other strategies she can rely on, and to invite it to take on a new role. maybe then it can stop carrying the burden of hypervigilance, of being a ‘firefighter’ tasked with extinguishing “the bubble of panic inside” whenever uncertainty rears its head. perhaps it could trust that it’s safe to let go a bit and do what it really longs to: to honor the wonder and magic in the everyday, to help susan tell her story on her own terms, to fuel her creativity rather than control her life.

[finnlongman]

For this totally normal Friday could you possibly share some fun (or not so fun, whatever you want) figures in Irish Mythology/History whose experiences align/mimic those of modern day asexuals and aromantics? :D

This one is tricky, but possibly not for the reasons you might expect! For those who aren't aware, my PhD research focuses on friendship in the Ulster Cycle (particularly the later Ulster Cycle, so kind of post-12th century). This means I spend a lot of time thinking about how relationships are constructed in these texts and how people express affection, and the main thing I've noticed is that there's just... very little romance. It hardly ever comes up.

It's especially noticeable when you compare this material to chivalric romances being written at the same time -- your Arthurian tales for example -- where courtly love-service and other motifs are more prominent. The Irish simply don't go in for that. Even when people are married it's hardly mentioned, and even when they're having affairs and the text is focused on that, they don't emphasise the role of Feelings™ particularly. There are exceptions to this, but fewer of them than you might think; even the famously romantic stories tend to be... less romantic once you look closer at them.

I'm not entirely sure why, though I have a few theories (among them the effects of continued monastic/clerical authorship in periods when secular courtly authorship was more common in some other languages). You do get love poetry (non-narrative) in Irish in this period, just not much in the way of romantic prose (narrative), especially not when it comes to the Ulster Cycle. (And when people do get an attack of the feelings in the prose tales, they usually express those feelings in poetry. Prose is perhaps the wrong medium for falling in love. Most of the chivalric tales are in verse throughout, of course, so they don't have this problem. But Irish really goes in for prose as the medium for storytelling from a very early period, and even when they're translating tales from verse in other languages, often render them as prose.)

So, in many ways, it's hard to perceive characters who seem to have noticeably less interest in romance and/or sex than other characters, because desire is so rarely foregrounded in a recognisable manner. I'd say there's a bit more emphasis on sex, but very little on what we might call "romantic love". There's a lot to be said about how relationships and feelings are classified across this period that doesn't map onto our modern divisions, but even when comparing the literature with that being written at the same time and sometimes very nearby, it seems to be doing something slightly different. Maybe that's why I enjoy this material so much! 😂

Having said all that, Láeg is quite married to Cú Chulainn in a lot of ways, but other than that, I don't think he is ever hinted at having any kind of romantic or sexual entanglements with anybody at any point -- no casual flirting, no ill-timed affairs, no distractions. It could easily be used as a plot point to separate him from Cú Chulainn at a crucial moment but it simply never comes up. While this is quite likely just to be a class thing (we couldn't possibly acknowledge servants as having an inner life of their own), the way he judges Cú Chulainn for running off at the start of the Táin because he has a date very much gives Aroace Best Friend Is Judging Your Life Choices. Although possibly I'm projecting there 😅

Looking outside of Irish material, I have always read 'Guigemar' by Marie de France as resonating with demi experiences in particular. He is into one (1) person and one (1) person only, no matter how hard others try to make him behave in a more socially normative way. Bill Burgwinkle has some insightful remarks about queer approaches to this story in Sodomy, Masculinity and Law, but doesn't explore aro-/acespec readings; I think they would be very productive. When I wrote an essay on queer readings of Marie de France as an undergrad, that was one of the things I focused on.

[larena]

This is maybe a hot take, but I really wish big budget RPGs would stop trying to make detailed sex scenes a thing. Not for any prudish "if I see a penis or vagina I will simply die" but just like... it's a roleplaying game. I want to roleplay.

I'm all for there being some things about a main character that you can't change because they simply have to be true for the plot to function, and y'know, Commander Shepard is always going to be within a particular range of characterization, you can't go *too* off-book. But I feel like how my character has sex, or doesn't, should be up to me if I *do* otherwise have a particular degree of authorship over them. Instead of just having to watch some overly expensive mocap that makes those decisions for me. And I do worry that focusing so much on making these scenes is why we have such a dearth of asexual options in RPG romance as well. We can't let the player say *no*! Don't they want to see our cutscene?? And It's weird because for all of BG3's vaunted dick options, and "spicy" sex scenes and bear fucking, the sex scene in that game that I feel is handled *best* are all the variations on the scene with the drow sex workers in act 3. You have a *lot* of options to choose from for how you want that encounter to go, they give you opportunities to express certain proclivities your character might or might not have, you can even outright make this encounter with a sex worker nonsexual if you really want, because like, yeah that is an option, and it's all under a completely black screen with only voiceover from your partner(s) and dialogue options. And it isn't even one of the game's *actual* romance options. Why can't I have that all the time, why isn't every romance given that level of freedom instead of some overproduced overhyped cutscene?

[possesseddesiress]

Stra8 to gay: EDC

CONTENT WARNING: This story includes themes of transformation and body control with a suggestive approach. If this type of narrative is not to your liking or you do not meet the recommended age, we suggest you do not continue.

All images used (if any) belong to their respective owners. I claim no authorship over them and they are only used for illustrative purposes.

If you decide to go ahead, welcome to Possessed Desires, where mind and body are never completely under your control.

Stra8 to gay (English Version)

This is my friend Gustavo and me, my name is Edgar.

We usually work out a lot, and we usually make the girls go crazy for us. Although sometimes there is some other guy interested in us, and don't get me wrong, I don't "dislike" those kind of guys.

I just don't share their interest in other men, and neither does Gustavo. I guess we're both straight enough to only notice girls with big breasts and buttocks. We are also both big fans of electronic music. And one of the most important electronic music concerts in the world was about to happen: EDC.

Unluckily for both of us, we hadn't found a single ticket for the festival, and the prices from online scalpers were sky high.

– Bro, what are we going to do? The festival starts today and we still don't have a ticket - Gustavo snorted as he leaned against the machine he was using.

– Don't worry, bro. You'll see we'll find a way to go, finish your sets, then we'll be on our way.

After the gym, we went straight to where the EDC would take place, there were thousands of stands with merchandise, the entrances for the entrance, and some resellers looking for or offering tickets. However, the prices were just as high as online.

– Bro, we're not going to find anything - my friend Gustavo said, frustrated. Sitting down on the floor - the concert starts in an hour and we have nothing.

I didn't know what else to say, I knew he was right and we wouldn't be able to listen to the music, see the artists... nothing, not even flirt with some hot girl that was entering the festival.

– Looking for a way to get into the concert, huh? - a stranger seemed to appear out of nowhere right next to us.

– Yes, yes, but if the ticket is too expensive? - I tried to say, but Gustavo interrupted me.

– No, we'll do anything! - he seemed desperate to get in.

–Anything?...

The stranger raised his eyebrow curiously. Before the stranger could say anything, though, I approached him to whisper.

– What are you doing... Don't you think it's risky to tell him that?

– Bro, maybe it's the only chance we have to get in, we've dreamed of going this year, it doesn't matter. I have a good feeling about all this.

I sighed, Gustavo immediately approached the man.

– Whatever. What's your price?

He was silent, then smiled.

– Nothing, I just needed to be told.

He waved his hands, something felt incredibly wrong, I tried to stop all this but out of nowhere... everything seemed to go black. It was like being lost in nothingness, and suddenly finding a tunnel of light that I was pulled into with no alternative.

I inhaled air as if I hadn't done it in years, everything around me felt blurry until slowly I was able to focus. I was... inside the concert?

I could see the stages, the music playing, the people walking around in their costumes. But... How?

That's when I looked down. Finding a body completely different from the one I was used to, my muscles were gone, the tanned and dark complexion I had, even the clothes I was wearing.

Instead, I found a body that had a slimmer frame, wearing tight leather shorts and what appeared to be a top t-shirt.

Shit... How was all that happening? I swallowed nervously. I looked around, noticing a large mirror, so I walked over to examine my new body. I stroked my cheekbones, soft... flexed my new arms, they still had a certain amount of muscle but nothing compared to the huge biceps I had before.

Even the texture of my hair was different, and what to speak of the way I was dressed.

I would never wear such a revealing outfit. It looked good on this body, but it felt so out of place... it felt tight and snug, plus... oh shit.

I could feel the outline of his underwear, this guy looked like he was wearing string as boxers! He was clinging to my new buttocks tightly. I felt so... Fuck, whatever.

It wasn't all bad, was it? After all I was at the EDC, I could listen to the music, dance, even flirt with some girl! It would be hard to get his attention with this body and no doubt there would be more than a little doubt about his sexuality, but I was in control now. No gay stuff with me in charge.

I pulled out this guy's cell phone to take a picture of me, I had to admit I looked good, I liked the way he looked... gosh, I looked sexy...

What? Where had that thought come from? I looked attractive, not sexy, why would another man look sexy to me? See how those legs look though... meaty and big. Oh my gosh, look how tight those shorts look.

Before I could continue with all that, I could notice from the reflection, how someone was behaving strangely.

He was caressing his body, as if he was checking himself out for the first time.

He looked dismayed, but at the same time, he seemed fascinated by his appearance. Could it be...?

I approached the other guy, he was wearing a cap and glasses, and some kind of tight bodysuit that looked so sexy...

Shit, that's enough!

I approached timidly. I didn't know if it was the fact of approaching someone and asking them if that wasn't their body, or if it was this body influencing them in some way.

– Um... Excuse me - I mumbled.

The boy immediately turned around, stopping touching his body, apparently he was going to start examining his pectorals because he quickly lowered his hands to pretend naturalness.

– Yes? - he said somewhat nervously.

My heart was beating fast. But it was now or never...

– Gustavo, is it... is it you?

There was a silence, which was only filled by the voices of the people around or the music itself.

– Oh fuck, Edgar?!

The boy smiled. He immediately hugged me tightly, clinging me to him, to which I couldn't help but gasp at the closeness.

But what was happening to me?

— Dude, we made it in! - he smiled broadly, looking around, although he then took out a wallet from his pockets to examine the contents.

– Gustavo, there's something not right, w-we have to figure out how to solve this.

– Fix? Dude, we're in the EDC, there's nothing to solve, besides. Now tell me Alex.

I didn't understand why my friend was behaving that way, so... calm from being in someone else's body. Hadn't he noticed the changes? Wasn't he feeling them?

– No, no. You don't understand, now I'm feeling things... I-I, it's this body! I don't feel like me anymore!

– Mh? - he raised his eyebrow in confusion, it seemed he wasn't even paying attention to me, he was flexing his new arms, apparently enjoying the way the fabric fit him – What are you talking about? You're still you, just in another body.

– No! Can't you feel it!? These bodies aren't straight like we used to be! See how they're dressed!

It almost seemed that Gustavo didn't care about anything. He was more focused on admiring himself now in that new form.

– Well, I say they look good. You look so good... - he murmured, looking at me as if I were a girl.

– What the fuck is wrong with you, Gustavo? – I told you I'm not "Gustavo", call me Alex. Don't stress about all this, besides, how are we going to solve this? We don't know where the man who did all this is and we don't have the slightest clue how to get back.

My heart was pounding in anguish.

– W-we're screwed.

– Nah, enjoy. I'm sure these guys have access all three days! Stop being so dramatic! - Without warning, he reached down to open the front of the backpack this body was carrying, pulling out what appeared to be a wallet, opening it to check it

– What's more, I'll call you Tony now.

– But that's not my name!

– Now you do, Tony – he smiled, turning the wallet over to show me the ID.

How could he be so relaxed! I was about to go crazy, I wanted my body back!

– No, Gustavo! That's enough! - I could feel some people looking at us in confusion. But I was two seconds away from a nervous breakdown.

And the next thing that happened totally confused me... Gustavo grabbed my shoulders to press his lips against mine, clutching his fingers on my shoulders to keep me there. At first I tried to pull away, but the more time passed, it felt more and more... good?

Why was I so upset before...? This felt so good.

I kissed him back slowly, feeling our tongues crashing against each other, each touch feeling even better than the last. I let Gustavo, I mean, Alex.... Take my waist and hold on to him.

– Are you ready to spend the best three days of your life, Tony?

– Y-yes - I nodded with a silly smile on my face. Before kissing him again.

He took my hand tightly to lead me to a secluded spot, there were some tents to cover up, we both slipped away until we seemed to be out of sight of everyone. Without giving any respite, Alex grabbed me again, seeking my lips.

– What a sexy body you ended up in, Tony - he murmured, caressing my waist, his hands slowly moving to my buttocks to squeeze them. I could feel the fabric crinkle at the movement.

– T-thank you - was the only thing my brain managed to formulate. Without warning, Alex pressed me against his armpit, rubbing me against it.

– Smell it.

The scent intoxicated me, I opened my eyes as if in a dream, lethargic, barely nodded, letting the aroma flood my nostrils, even gave it a couple of licks, feeling the fabric full of sweat.

– A-Alex...

– Shhh... They're going to hear us - he continued to rub me. Then he smiled to flex his arms, puffing them out through the black fabric.

– Do you like it? - he then shifted his pecs, which seemed to bounce to stay in place thanks to his bodysuit.

– Yes!

Unable to contain myself any longer, I ended up throwing myself against him to kiss him again in a desperate and needy way.

I think it's going to be a very interesting three days...

---

I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you liked it, don't forget to follow it and share it so more people can discover it.

I'm always open to suggestions and ideas, so if you have any fantasy or scenario in mind, let me know in the comments or in messages.

This will be my new account, I hope you like the stories that are coming soon. See you in the next story...

Who knows what body you will occupy this time?

---

[callmearcturus]

redoing this ask because fuck that poll lmaoooo i have a persona question, IMO persona's romance system can sometimes fail when its clear the devs wanted one character to be the "canon" love interest for the overall story, but added in side romances to please fans (p2 with [spoiler redacted], p3 with aigis, and p4 with rise based on how much time is focused on their dynamic and bond) but i feel like P5 *intended* for Makoto to be the go-to romance option (especially with how she was handled in the anime) but Royal switched it to Akechi. Do you think that Persona should just stick with one romance option, have a small number of options that they develop, or have it be "every npc is an option" type deal. personally i think it depends on the game? but i feel as if P5 would have benefited from only having 5 romance options (Haru, Makoto, Akechi, Hifumi, and maybe Yusuke?)

Hmmmmm.

It's hard to consider this without also thinking about the other dating sim RPGs, i.e. Bioware. What's interesting there is that some of the romances felt intended (Liara in Mass Effect especially) but there were multiple really good options.

What I find interesting is how Persona and Bioware games handle the shared authorship of the characters. There's an entire Game Maker's Toolkit video about how the narrative designers had to design on a tightrope, keeping the cinematic nature of the story rolling but also making the player feel like they had a handle on the direction (even when the latter was mostly imagined).

Okay, here's two weird thoughts:

The wide array of Persona romances are pretty shallow and would benefit from a shift to much fewer romances that are far more fleshed out.

Akechi is so shocking and compelling because the comparative shallowness of the other romances, because he is a subversion of them.

To me, what makes Akechi the far-and-away best 'romance' of Persona 5 Royal is that he's not a romance 'option.' The player has very little agency over how Joker feels about Akechi. If you hit a couple of flags, then Joker is fucked up and in love with Akechi. That's just it. Maruki gives everyone what they want, and what Joker wants is Akechi.

The fact that Joker is a partially player-directed character that autonomously decides to be in love with Akechi is the secret sauce, imo. Ergo, if you improve the romances overall, you lose some of the specialness inherent in Akechi.

I had a LOT of problems with P5R's writing and especially its structure. I would remove Makoto entirely but for pacing issues, not for the strength of her writing. I'd cut a lot of cruft from the game.

I don't know if I would take away the gutpunch of Akechi though. Not for P5R. For other Persona games, 100% yes, I would. Narrow the scope of romances, maybe even stick just to party members so its easier to build a coherent, meaningful narrative with the love interest.

i hope some of that makes sense, i'm a bit sick and meandering today

[lthienofdorthonion]

The Alchemy Between Us: Draco and Hermione’s Tale

Summary:

Ten years after the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione Granger is a shadow of her former self. With Harry gone and her failed relationship with Ron behind her, she throws herself into her work at the Ministry of Magic, avoiding the lingering emptiness that threatens to consume her. One cold winter night, seeking a reprieve from her relentless routine, she stumbles into a quiet pub—and into the unexpected presence of Draco Malfoy. It's been over five years since their paths last crossed, and the man she meets now is nothing like the boy she once knew. As their lives intertwine in ways neither anticipated, old wounds, unspoken truths, and unexpected feelings begin to surface. In the wake of war and loss, can two former enemies find solace—and maybe even love—in each other?

In response to a prompt by iwasbotwp in the SlytherinHouseStories collection. (Archive of Our Own/AO3)

Prompt:

A hug from a tall man who smells good and has tattoos would make me feel better right now.

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Author Notes:

This story is born thanks to the best group of Slytherin housemates I've ever met. We share something in common: the beauty of writing. Everyday, we share about our lives and then encourage each other to write. Having difficulty finding things in my life that make me smile, this is truly a blessing. I feel fortunate. And today 1/10/2025 they encouraged us to write a short story.

The pairing could be random but I knew it had to be Dramione.

Inspired on "Something in the rain (2018)" both soundtrack and TV series, "The Beauty inside (2015)", "Pride and Prejudice (2005)", "The Notebook (2004)", the beautiful music of Carla Bruni and a generous dose of corny love stories—because, well, I’m hopelessly corny.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, inspired by the Harry Potter universe and the characters I love so much. I am not trying, under any circumstances, to take authorship of J.K. Rowling's original work. All rights belong to the creator of this incredible saga.

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The Alchemy Between Us: Draco and Hermione’s Tale

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚              I              ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

“Happiness only real when shared.” ― Christopher McCandless

Ten years had passed since the war that shattered and remade the wizarding world. The scars of those turbulent times lingered, etched into both the magical and the mundane. For many, life was measured in "before" and "after" the Battle of Hogwarts. It was a new era, shaped by sacrifice and loss but also by resilience.

Voldemort had fallen, but not without taking Harry Potter with him. Their final duel was as devastating as it was decisive, and Harry’s death had left an unfillable void. The Boy Who Lived became the Man Who Sacrificed Everything, immortalized in statues, stories, and an annual day of remembrance. The world mourned him as a symbol of bravery, peace, and the ultimate cost of freedom.

Hermione Granger, now 27, had rebuilt her life through sheer determination. As the head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, she was a force to be reckoned with—brilliant, relentless, and utterly devoted to her work. But behind the polished exterior lay a woman carrying the weight of what she had lost. Her bushy hair, now tamed into long, cascading curls, framed a face that bore the quiet strength of someone who had endured more than most could imagine. Hermione was beautiful in a way that came not from vanity but from the confidence and purpose that defined her. Yet, she was a workaholic, finding solace in diplomacy and treaties instead of in personal connections.

The loss of Harry had carved a deep wound into Hermione’s heart, one that time could not fully mend. He had been her constant—a brother in all but blood. Harry’s bravery and kindness had been the anchor that kept her steady during the darkest days of the war. Without him, the world seemed quieter, emptier. She missed the way he always knew what to say to make her feel understood. His absence lingered in every corner of her life, like a quiet ache she carried like a shadow.

In the immediate aftermath of Harry’s death, the brunette had thrown herself into her work. Grief had a way of making the familiar unbearable, and the places they used to frequent felt haunted by his memory. She rarely allowed herself to cry, fearing that if she started, she might never stop. Instead, she channeled her emotions into action, pouring her energy into rebuilding the wizarding world he had sacrificed everything to save. Harry had always believed in her, and she worked tirelessly to honor that belief, even when it left her drained and isolated.

Her love life was a testament to her struggles. In the aftermath of the war, she had tried to build something with Ron. What began as a refuge of shared grief and familiarity soon turned toxic and possessive on Ron’s end. Their fights were loud and frequent and it just became too much. After almost a year, Hermione made the painful decision to end it. Though they remained on amicable terms, Ron struggled with the shift from lovers to friends. He made genuine efforts to reconnect with Hermione, but his lingering feelings often bled through. He was flirty, occasionally asked her out under the guise of "just catching up," and seemed to hope that time would rekindle something between them. Hermione, however, kept firm boundaries, navigating their friendship with patience and clarity despite his persistence.

Even now, ten years later, Hermione found herself reflecting on Harry’s absence. There were moments—quiet evenings at home or during celebrations of his legacy—when she could almost hear his voice, offering words of encouragement or gently teasing her for overworking. The weight of his loss was a reminder that even peace came with a price, and she carried that burden as she tried to build a future worthy of his sacrifice.

Ginny Weasley’s grief had been a wound she could never ignore. Hermione remembered the days after the war when the redhead had retreated from the world, shrouded in the unbearable pain of losing Harry. Their relationship had been full of love and promise—a rare source of hope in the dark times they all endured. But Harry’s death had shattered that future, leaving her adrift.

Hermione had been there for her friend, though she often felt helpless in the face of Ginny’s sorrow. She knew what it meant to grieve for Harry; she carried her own loss like a quiet ache. But Ginny’s pain was different—sharper, more immediate. Hermione had done her best, providing a steady presence as her friend navigated the impossible path of healing.

When Theodore Nott entered her friend’s life, Hermione had been skeptical. The quiet Slytherin with a murky past seemed an unlikely match for the redhead’s fiery spirit. But over time, Hermione watched the way Theo treated her friend—with patience, understanding, and an unwavering respect that allowed her to find herself again. He didn’t see Ginny as a woman defined by her grief. He saw her, truly and completely, and that made all the difference.

Now, years later, Ginny and Theo’s love was one of the brightest parts of Hermione’s life. The redhead had transformed into someone stronger, freer, and full of life again, and Hermione couldn’t help but feel grateful for Theo’s role in that. Her best friend’s happiness was infectious, and the time they spent together had become a cherished escape from the rigors of her own life.

Hermione and Ginny met at least twice a week, whether for dinner, coffee, or long chats that often stretched late into the night. These moments were Hermione’s lifeline, pulling her out of the constant demands of her job and reminding her of what truly mattered. Ginny’s laughter had a way of filling whatever space they were in, and her mischievous wit could draw even the most reluctant smile from her.

Yet, there was a bittersweet undercurrent to her joy for Ginny and Theo. Watching them together, so at ease in their love, warmed her heart but also stirred something else she couldn’t quite ignore. Don’t get me wrong, Hermione was happy for her friend, truly, but seeing Ginny and Theo’s quiet intimacy, the way they shared glances and small touches, reminded her of what she didn’t have.

She buried herself in work, yes, but there were nights when the loneliness pressed heavily on her. Hermione longed for someone to come home to, someone to share her triumphs and frustrations with, someone whose arms she could fall into when the weight of the world became too much. There were times when she almost caved to Ron’s attempts to get back together. He was persistent, and the familiarity of him was tempting in those moments when the solitude felt overwhelming.

But each time, she stopped herself. Did she really want to go back there? The answer was an immediate no. She had ended things for a reason. She didn’t want to make decisions based on loneliness, to settle for something that wasn’t right simply because it was easier than being alone. Hermione wanted something real, something that moved her, something that made her feel alive.

And so, she waited, telling herself that if such a connection was meant to happen, it would. Until then, she carried on, finding solace in her work, her friendships, and the hope that one day, her own story of love and connection would unfold.

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Winter had arrived with an undeniable presence, casting the magical world in a blanket of pure white. It was December, and snow covered every rooftop, lamppost, and cobblestone street. Hogsmeade was picturesque, its shops adorned with enchanted fairy lights that blinked like stars. Even Diagon Alley was transformed, its bustling lanes dusted with snow that melted only slightly under the warmth of charmed lanterns. The air carried a crisp chill that turned every breath into visible puffs, and the streets hummed with the quiet joy of the season.

At the Ministry of Magic, however, the festive atmosphere did little to alleviate Hermione Granger’s mounting stress. She was in the thick of negotiations with the French Ministry, attempting to finalize an international trade agreement involving enchanted artifacts. The work required precision, diplomacy, and endless patience—all things Hermione typically excelled at. But her boss, Roderick Panswick, was making things unnecessarily difficult.

Panswick was the sort of man who thrived on asserting authority. He had a penchant for micromanaging, swooping into Hermione’s meticulously prepared plans with unnecessary changes and half-formed ideas that left her scrambling to keep the agreement from falling apart. The stress was wearing on her; even her usually pristine desk was cluttered with scrolls and half-empty teacups. By the time she left the office, her shoulders ached, her head throbbed, and she felt like she’d been wrung out like a dishrag.

Ginny had promised they would meet after work for a drink at the pub—a much-needed escape. Hermione had dressed for the occasion, feeling a rare flicker of excitement. The redhead had insisted they make a proper night of it, and together they’d chosen Hermione’s outfit the weekend before: a form-fitting burgundy dress with a modest slit at the side, paired with heeled boots and a stylish wool coat that hugged her figure. The dress was simple but undeniably flattering, a step outside the brunette’s usual workwear. She put on a matching red lipstick, also her friend’s gift. Ginny had even added her signature touch by teaching her how to enchant her curls to frame her face perfectly.

But just as the lioness finished getting ready, she received an owl from the redhead. The note was hurried, apologetic—Theo needed her help with something urgent, and she couldn’t make it. Hermione’s heart sank as she read it. She had been looking forward to the evening, to a chance to vent, laugh, and perhaps drown her stress in a few too many glasses of Firewhisky. Now, the prospect of going alone felt daunting, but the thought of staying home was worse.

The pub was buzzing with the low hum of conversation as Hermione stepped inside, brushing the drizzle from her hair. The warmth of the Silver Stag was a welcome reprieve from the damp chill of the December evening. Tucked away on a quiet street in Diagon Alley, the Silver Stag had a reputation as a cozy yet lively spot for those looking to escape the winter cold with a warm drink and good company.

She had planned for a quiet night—just one drink to unwind before heading home to the mountain of parchment awaiting her review. But the place was packed.

Hermione scanned the room, noting with mild irritation that every table was full. Her usual corner booth, a snug spot near the enchanted window that showed falling snow even on clear nights, was taken by a group of young witches laughing over Butterbeers. Even the bar was packed, the stools occupied by rowdy wizards animatedly discussing the latest Quidditch match.

With a sigh, she turned her attention back toward the entrance, thinking she might try another place, but then decided against it. The Silver Stag had been her comfort zone for years, and tonight, she needed comfort.

Instead, Hermione approached the bar, weaving through the bustling crowd until she reached the counter. The bartender, an older wizard named Benwick with a thick salt-and-pepper beard, looked up as she approached.

“Evening, Miss Granger,” he said, setting down a polished goblet with a smile. “What can I get you tonight?”

“Hi, Benwick,” Hermione said, returning his smile with a faint one of her own. “Honestly, I could use a Firewhisky—or two. But before that, is there anywhere I can sit? It’s absolutely packed tonight.”

Benwick poured a generous amount of Firewhisky into a glass and slid it toward her with a knowing grin.

“You’ve got that right. Winter nights always bring a crowd, and with the snow picking up outside, everyone’s huddling in for the evening.”

Hermione sighed, leaning her elbows against the counter. “I just need a quiet spot. Anywhere, really. It’s been one of those days.”

Benwick chuckled, the sound warm and familiar. “I might have just the place. Follow me.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said, her relief evident as she trailed behind him through the maze of tables. Her thoughts wandered as they moved—she thought about the stack of work waiting for her at home, Ginny canceling on her at the last minute, and the ache of loneliness that seemed sharper in the cold of December.

They reached the far side of the room, and Benwick stopped. 

“Here you are,” Benwick said, gesturing to a small table tucked in a quieter corner. “There’s a seat with this gentleman.”

Hermione looked up—and her breath caught in her throat.

It was Malfoy.

The blond was seated there with his chair slightly angled away from the crowd, one hand wrapped around a glass of amber liquid. His hair, once meticulously slicked back, now fell to his shoulders—slightly unruly, but it looked good. Ridiculously good . His long, lean frame was clad in a dark shirt and his sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms inked with magical runes that shimmered faintly in the flickering light of the lantern above. His neck, too, was partially tattooed, the dark ink snaking up from his collar, adding a dangerous edge to his already imposing figure. He was surprisingly tall, even while seated, and his scent—a subtle combination of ciderwood, parchment, and mint—clung to him like an invisible aura. He looked... different. Pleasantly different.

And yet, entirely himself.

Malfoy’s gaze lifted from his drink and his silver-grey eyes locked with hers. She had forgotten how piercingly deep his eyes were. His expression shifted from mild surprise to something unreadable.

“Benwick, I—” Hermione began and her voice faltered as she realized where he’d brought her.

“No need to thank me,” the bartender said with a wink. “Enjoy your evening, Miss Granger.” With that, he turned and disappeared back into the crowd.

Hermione stood frozen, feeling her stomach twisting as Malfoy’s gaze remained fixed on her. For a moment, she thought about leaving, walking straight back to the bar or even Apparating home. But the room was too crowded, and retreating would only make things more awkward.

She hadn’t seen Malfoy in five years, not since his trial. Even then, their interaction had been brief but strangely memorable—a surprising nod of gratitude from him after her testimony, and nothing more. Yet the memory of that moment prickled at her now, though she couldn’t quite place why.

After the war, Malfoy was sentenced to 20 years in Azkaban for his involvement with Voldemort and the Death Eaters. While he hadn’t been one of Voldemort’s most active followers, his name alone was enough to warrant a harsh sentence. However, following an appeal, the wizarding world watched with bated breath as he faced a public trial that would decide whether he could reintegrate into magical society and whether the five years he had already served—marked by good behavior and clear efforts to improve—would be enough to grant him a second chance. In a surprising turn of events, Hermione had testified in his favor.

She stood before the Wizengamot and argued that Draco Malfoy had been a victim of circumstance, a boy thrust into a war he hadn’t chosen, forced to bear the weight of his family’s decisions. She spoke of his hesitation in carrying out Voldemort’s orders, of the way he had lowered his wand in the final battle, unable to take a life. And she reminded the court of his mother, Narcissa Malfoy, whose small act of defiance—lying to Voldemort about Harry’s death—had ultimately turned the tide of the war.

It was a controversial stance, one that drew whispers and raised eyebrows, but it worked. Malfoy was granted his freedom, albeit under intense scrutiny.

The Malfoys had suffered enormous losses by then. Lucius Malfoy had died in the war, leaving Narcissa to salvage what remained of their family’s fractured reputation. Although she was absolved of all charges, the family’s once-imposing presence in society had crumbled. Their name, once synonymous with power and influence, became one shrouded in disdain and mistrust.

Even so, they remained wealthy—an irritating truth that only seemed to intensify the public’s resentment. But money couldn’t shield them from the weight of social exile. Few wanted anything to do with the Malfoys. Gossip swirled that Draco had become a recluse, retreating to the vast emptiness of Malfoy Manor or some distant property to live as a hermit.

That image lingered in Hermione’s mind as she sat across from him now. The man before her looked so far removed from the boy she had known at Hogwarts, yet something about him was hauntingly familiar. His nod of gratitude all those years ago had been silent, fleeting, but it had carried a depth that had stayed with her longer than she cared to admit.

The fact that the pub was so full made Malfoy’s empty chair all the more noticeable. He was a figure who couldn’t easily slip into the background—his pale blond hair, sharp features, and unmistakable presence were hard to miss. Despite the crowded pub, no one dared to approach his table. It explained why the seat was vacant when all others were occupied.

Hermione could feel the eyes of the other wizards and witches lingering on him as she sat down. She was keenly aware of the stares—some curious, some filled with disgust. It was clear that many knew exactly who he was, and their disdain was palpable. She could almost hear the unspoken judgments in the silence that followed her decision to sit across from him.

But Malfoy didn’t seem to notice. Or, if he did, he didn’t care. His attention remained fixed on his drink, as if the world around him didn’t exist.

“Granger,” Malfoy said at last, in a calm voice but tinged with curiosity. “Are you planning to stand there all night, or…?”

Her cheeks flushed, and she straightened her posture. “Apparently, this is the only seat left,” she said briskly, stepping forward.

Malfoy’s lips curved into a faint smirk. “Lucky me.” He gestured to the empty chair across from him.

With a steadying breath, Hermione sat down and placed her drink on the table, reminding herself that it was just one drink. She could endure one drink.

If Malfoy noticed her approach, he gave no indication and his attention was seemingly fixed on the glass in his hand. She hesitated briefly, debating whether to say something or simply turn and leave, but the growing ache in her feet from a long day at work had already made the decision for her.

Once seated, she unfastened her coat and draped it neatly over the back of her chair, revealing the form-fitting burgundy dress she had chosen—or rather, had been coerced into wearing. The fabric hugged her frame in ways that made her feel both daring and uncomfortably exposed, with a modest slit at the side that displayed more of her legs than she would have liked. She silently cursed Ginny for suggesting the dress, swearing she’d have a word with her about it later.

Malfoy’s eyes shifted to her then, and she caught the faintest flicker of surprise before his expression returned to its usual indifference. He scanned her slowly, his gaze sweeping from her tousled curls to the hem of her dress and back up again. His appraisal was subtle but thorough, lingering just long enough to send a flush creeping up her neck.

Hermione shifted in her seat, tugging the hem of the dress down slightly as though to shield herself from his scrutiny. But before she could say anything—or gather the courage to meet his gaze—he turned back to his drink, dismissing her presence as though it were of no particular importance.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Hermione said finally, breaking the silence.

“Likewise,” he replied. “I thought you’d be at work, as usual.”

Hermione bristled slightly. “And I thought you’d be... well, somewhere else.”

He smirked, but it was faint, almost self-deprecating. “I suppose I deserve that.”

She studied him more closely now and her initial discomfort gave way to curiosity. He seemed... settled, in a way she hadn’t expected. The tension that used to coil in his shoulders was gone, replaced by something quieter, more reflective.

“So, what are you doing these days?” she asked, trying to sound casual but not entirely succeeding.

Malfoy’s gaze lingered on her for a moment before he answered. “Enchanting,” he said simply.

She frowned, not understanding.

“Magical enchantments,” he clarified. “Objects, artifacts, even spaces. It’s... a living.”

“Enchantments,” she repeated, the word rolling off her tongue with mild disbelief. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for that.”

He shrugged, taking a sip of his drink. “It’s precise work. Requires focus, skill. And it keeps me out of trouble, which I imagine is what you’re really wondering about.”

Hermione flushed. “That’s not—well, maybe a little.”

Draco chuckled softly, the sound low and unguarded. “Honesty suits you, Granger.”

This exchange surprised her. It was the longest conversation they had ever had, and certainly the first time they’d spoken without their usual barbed insults. What was more startling was the way he was acting—kind of... nice? Definitely not like him. But there it was, in the calm way he spoke, in the faint laugh that seemed to warm the room. She didn’t quite know how to process it.

Silence fell between them again, and Hermione found herself glancing around the pub. She was hyper aware of him—of the way his fingers tapped idly against his glass, the faint shimmer of magic in the tattoos on his arms and the subtle but intoxicating scent of his cologne.

“Why did you testify for me?” he asked suddenly, in a quieter voice now, almost hesitant.

Hermione blinked, caught off guard by the question. 

“You were a victim of circumstance,” she said after a moment. “You were young, manipulated. I thought you deserved a second chance.”

His eyes searched hers, and she felt the weight of his gaze. “Most people wouldn’t have bothered.”

“I’m not most people.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “No, you’re not.”

They lapsed into silence once more, but this time, it felt less strained. Hermione sipped her firewhisky, letting its warmth seep into her, and stole another glance at him.

“You’ve changed,” she said softly.

“So have you,” he replied in an equally quiet voice.

She looked down at her hands, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “I suppose we’ve all had to, haven’t we?”

Malfoy nodded. 

“War does that to people.”

The mention of the war hung heavy between them, bringing with it the ghosts of those they had lost—Harry and so many others. Hermione felt the familiar ache rise in her chest, but she pushed it down, unwilling to let it consume her tonight.

When she looked up, she found Malfoy watching her and his gaze was softer than she remembered.

After a moment of contemplation, she spoke again in a lighter tone this time. “I must admit, I’m surprised to find you here. There were rumors, you know. That you’d become a hermit.”

Draco laughed, a bitter edge to it, and took another drink. “Kind of did,” he said. “No one really wanted to have anything to do with me after all that.”

He paused and his eyes flickered over to a group of wizards across the room who were staring at him full of disgust. He leaned back slightly in his chair and added, almost under his breath, “Even now.”

As if on cue, the wizards who had been eyeing him turned their backs with almost exaggerated speed, as if afraid to even acknowledge his presence. Malfoy didn’t seem to care.

Hermione shrugged, her voice calm but resolute. “You did your time, and you did good. You’re free now. People should move on.”

He regarded her for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before he set his glass down and leaned forward slightly. “You’re not wrong. But it’s hard to move on when no one’s willing to let you.”

They both fell into another moment of quiet and the air between them felt comfortable but heavy with the weight of unspoken things. They both reached for their drinks again, and took a larger sip.

The burn of the firewhisky hit her throat immediately, sharp and fiery, and she couldn’t help but wince. Her face scrunched up comically, and she quickly set the glass down, trying to hide her reaction behind a forced cough.

Draco’s eyes gleamed with amusement as he caught the look. He chuckled, low and genuine. “I didn’t take you for someone who couldn’t handle their drink, Granger.”

Hermione shot him a look, trying to regain her composure. “I can handle it,” she said, but her voice was a little strained from the lingering burn. “I just… wasn’t expecting that.”

Malfoy leaned back with a small smile still tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Right,” he said. “Well, next time, maybe ease into it a bit more.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was a flicker of amusement in her own gaze. “Next time, I think I’ll just stick to something milder.”

They both took another sip, each in their own way processing the comfort of the moment—the strange, unexpected camaraderie that had developed between them tonight. Neither seemed eager to break the silence, but the words seemed to flow easier as the minutes passed.

They lingered for a while longer, not yet ready to break the spell of the unexpected calm they had found in each other’s company. The firewhisky had dulled the edges of their usual sharpness, and the usual banter was replaced by something far more raw and open.

Malfoy shifted in his seat and his eyes studied the now empty glass in his hand for a moment before he spoke. “You know… I never really thought I’d be here—sitting across from you, talking like this.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “No?”

“No,” he muttered, letting out a bitter laugh that sounded more like a self-directed sneer. “I was a bloody idiot back then, wasn’t I? Immature, selfish, impulsive... I thought I had it all figured out, but I didn’t know a damn thing.”

His words took her off guard. She had expected sarcasm, even a hint of the familiar arrogance, but instead, his voice was flat, almost... regretful.

“None of us knew anything back then,” Hermione replied softly, her tone genuine but hesitant, unsure of how to respond to the sudden vulnerability in his words.

He scoffed lightly, shaking his head. “I should’ve known better. I should’ve seen through all of it—the lies, the manipulation. I should’ve… done something. Instead, I followed blindly. I’ve been paying for it ever since.”

His eyes flickered to hers, and for a fleeting moment, Hermione saw something that made her heart ache—a kind of self-loathing that seemed to weigh him down.

“I didn’t even realize how much of a prick I was until after the war,” Draco admitted. “Everything I thought was important—blood, status, power—it didn’t matter. In the end, none of it did. And now... now I just hate myself for it.”

His voice was quieter now, raw, as though he were speaking his confessions aloud for the first time.

Hermione felt the sting of sympathy but didn’t know how to offer comfort. What could she say? What could she do to make him feel better about himself after everything he’d been through? But then, she realized, maybe this was his way of reaching out—letting someone see the version of him he had long buried.

“I don’t think you’re a lost cause,” she said carefully, choosing her words. “People change. We all do. You can’t undo the past, but you can start fresh.”

Draco let out a bitter chuckle, though it lacked humor. “Fresh? I wish it were that simple. It’s not like I just get a free pass. People like me don’t get to just start over, Granger. No one wants to forgive, no one wants to forget. Even now...” He trailed off and his eyes flickered across the room, where a few wizards were still casting sideways glances at him, their disdain as palpable as the stale air in the pub.

He gestured toward them with a faint smirk. “See? Even now, they still can’t let it go. And I don’t think they ever will.”

Hermione followed his gaze, and for the first time, she understood just how much weight he was carrying. There were no comforting words for moments like these.

“You know, you’re right,” she said, her voice taking on a slightly somber note. “It’s not easy. People judge quickly, and it’s hard to let go of the past when it’s constantly shoved in your face.”

She shifted, leaning back in her chair. 

“But I think you’ve done enough. You’ve done the work. People should just move on, and they should let you move on too.”

Malfoy didn’t reply immediately, and when he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. 

“Maybe... maybe you’re right. But I’ve been so used to being the villain, I don’t know how to be anything else.”

He chuckled bitterly, the sound carrying a trace of sadness. “I didn’t ask for any of this—this life, this reputation. But it’s mine now. And I’m stuck with it.”

For a moment, Hermione didn’t know what to say. It felt strange, hearing Draco Malfoy speak this openly. It was as if she was meeting someone new—someone who wasn’t the arrogant, snide Slytherin from Hogwarts, but a man who had been humbled by his own mistakes and the world’s harsh judgments. She was still trying to process it when he spoke again, in a softer voice now.

“Anyway... enough about me,” Malfoy said, with a weak attempt at deflection. “What about you? Has life been kind to the Golden Girl of Gryffindor?”

Hermione snorted, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself. “Not exactly. But I guess I can’t complain.”

She leaned forward. Her elbows were resting on the counter, looking at him thoughtfully. “It hasn’t been easy for me either. After everything… it took time. I thought I had everything figured out too, you know? But the war changed all of us. And I’ve lost people. Good people.”

Her voice faltered, just for a second, as she thought of Harry, Fred, and all the others they’d lost.

“I get it,” she continued in a steadier voice now. “You feel like you’re stuck with the person you used to be, and people expect you to be that person forever. But the truth is, we’re all just doing the best we can. That’s all any of us can do.”

The words seemed to linger in the air, and for a brief, almost surreal moment, they were just two people—two flawed, imperfect people—trying to make sense of the wreckage left behind.

They drank in silence for a few moments. And then, as the last of their drinks were gone, Draco glanced at her with an unreadable expression.

A few beats of quiet passed before he finally spoke and he seemed suddenly nervous. 

“Want another drink? My treat.”

Hermione hesitated, surprised by the offer. But then, with a resigned sigh, she glanced at the clock on the wall. “Well, Ginny made me dress up and come out tonight. I’m already here... I suppose another drink won’t hurt.”

She smiled faintly with a glint of mischief in her eyes. “But you owe me one for getting me into this.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow and a familiar smirk returned to his lips. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll find a way to repay me.”

She could feel the tension in the air, the subtle shift that had nothing to do with the conversation but everything to do with the space between them. The words they had shared had peeled back layers of things they didn’t usually reveal—and now, it was almost like they were on the precipice of something else, something unspoken.

They both ordered another round, and as the minutes bled into hours, the conversation meandered through unexpected territories. The firewhisky continued to flow, its warmth seeping into their bones, dulling the sharp edges of reality. Every sip was another step down a path neither of them had anticipated when they first sat down.

The conversation took on an almost intimate air, the kind that only alcohol and the passage of time could create. They spoke about what they enjoyed doing in their quieter moments—those little things that made them feel alive when the world seemed too heavy.

Draco’s voice was thoughtful as he spoke, his eyes locked on the amber liquid swirling in his glass. “You know, I’ve always liked painting,” he said, a small, almost nostalgic smile tugging at his lips.

Hermione blinked, surprised. “Painting? Really?”

“Yeah,” he admitted, his tone casual but with an undercurrent of sincerity. “I started back at Hogwarts. It was… well, it was the only thing that made sense to me, at the time. I was never any good at Potions or Transfiguration. But with a brush in my hand, things felt different. I could create something, you know? Something that didn’t feel dictated by anyone else.”

She watched him closely, a hint of curiosity piquing her interest. “I had no idea. You’ve never mentioned it.”

“No one ever asked,” Draco said, his words tinged with bitterness, though not directed at her. “I guess I didn’t think anyone would care. It was always easier to lean into the family business—the Death Eater shit. Everyone expected that. They didn’t expect someone like me to want to paint, to make art. They wanted a Malfoy who could follow orders, who could uphold the family’s 'honor.' And I was too stupid and arrogant to know any better.”

He took a long sip from his glass, his eyes shifting towards the empty space in front of them, as if lost in thought.

Hermione was taken aback. The Draco Malfoy she’d known—hell, the Draco Malfoy everyone knew—would have scoffed at such a revelation. Yet here he was, a man disarming himself piece by piece, revealing the raw core of someone who had been suffocating under expectations for far too long.

“That’s... that’s kind of beautiful,” she said quietly. “I never would’ve guessed.”

Draco gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. “You probably shouldn’t. Most people think I’m a lost cause.”

Hermione smiled, the warmth of the whisky giving her the courage to speak her mind. “I don’t think you're a lost cause. You’ve changed. You’re different from the person I remember.”

He raised an eyebrow at her and a spark of something—curiosity, maybe—flickered in his eyes. “What about you?”

Hermione paused, considering the question. Her fingers traced the edge of her glass, contemplating how much to reveal. She hadn't expected to share anything personal tonight, certainly not in this way. But something about the intimacy of the moment—combined with the alcohol—made her feel like the truth was the only thing left to offer.

“I’ve... developed a habit of smashing things,” she said, her voice low and almost sheepish. Draco’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Smashing things? Like what, exactly?”

“Abandoned houses,” she said, the words slipping out before she could fully stop them. “It’s not as crazy as it sounds. After the war, everyone expected me to be perfect—someone who’d helped take down Voldemort, who was supposed to be this beacon of hope, in the loss of… Harry. They wanted me to carry his message and become a public speaker to share his philosophy. But I wasn’t perfect. I wasn’t healed, and I didn’t know how to deal with everything that happened. So, I started going into abandoned houses—places no one cared about—and I bashed things. Glass, walls, chairs, whatever I could find. It was a way to let out the anger, the frustration. A way to tell the world to leave me the hell alone. I’m just a normal witch. I don’t have to be anything else.”

She met his gaze, trying to gauge his reaction. The silence between them was heavy, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was… understanding. As though he knew exactly what she meant.

“You do that in secret?” Draco asked quietly and softly.

Hermione nodded. “I didn’t want anyone to know. If they had, I think they’d have been disappointed. They expected me to be some kind of hero, a symbol. I never asked for that.”

Malfoy sat back. “I get it. The pressure to be something you’re not… It’s suffocating, isn’t it?”

She nodded, feeling her heart strangely lighter now that she had shared a piece of herself. It felt almost absurdly freeing to admit it out loud, to finally let someone see the cracks in her perfect façade.

Hermione took a deep breath, feeling a lump form in her throat as she tried to push through the weight of her emotions. "I miss Harry," she said quietly with her voice thick with nostalgia. "He was so real. So pure, you know? There was no pretending with him. We had something... so simple, so honest. A real frienship. And now it feels like everything's changed since he's been gone." Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, the ache of his absence was still so fresh after all these years. "He never asked for anything. He just... gave."

Draco’s gaze softened and his usual aloofness replaced by something more vulnerable. "I think about him, too," he admitted quietly. "Almost daily, actually. Sometimes, I still can't believe he's gone."

Hermione looked up in surprise, not expecting that admission from him. "Really?" she whispered.

He nodded, staring down at the table for a moment before looking back at her. "When I first met him—at Hogwarts, in first year—I wanted to be his friend. I thought he was... well, a badass." His lips curved into a rueful smile. "I’d heard about him, about how he survived. Everyone was always talking about Harry Potter, the boy who lived, and I thought—maybe I could get close to him, you know?"

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat as the blond continued. "I remember complaining about him to Dobby, after first year, about how annoying he was. But when I was alone, I’d confess to Dobby—I... I was jealous. I was jealous of you, of Weasley, of how you had real friendship, something I never had." He paused. His eyes were distant. "My friends... they were only there because I had the cool toys, the money, the status. Not because they really cared about me." His voice trailed off.

Hermione sat in stunned silence for a moment, letting the surprise of his words slowly sink in. She never imagined that Draco Malfoy, of all people, had ever felt that way. It made her heart ache for him, for the things he must’ve kept hidden away.

She shook her head softly and a tear slipped down her cheek as she spoke. "I never knew," she whispered, feeling her voice breaking. "I never knew you felt that way."

Malfoy looked away. "Not something I ever wanted anyone to know," he muttered. But then he glanced back at her, offering a small, almost sad smile. "But Harry... he was different. I didn't understand him then, but I do now. And I miss him too."

They both fell silent for a while. Finally, Hermione spoke again, her voice lightening just slightly. "Do you remember that time he... caused a Snake to appear when you both were in the Duelling Club? God, that was a mess." She smiled through the tears.

Draco let out a small laugh, shaking his head. "I think I nearly died watching him do that. He didn't think before he act, did he?"

Hermione chuckled softly, wiping at her eyes. "He always did that—acted before thinking. Like when I turned myself into a cat... after drinking that bloody Polyjuice Potion because we wanted to spy on you." She laughed "We thought you were the heir of Slytherin. I still don’t know how we didn’t get expelled for that."

Draco raised an eyebrow at her. "A cat, you say? I don't think I’ve heard that one."

She smiled sheepishly, her eyes glinting with the memory. "It was an accident. The potion, it was a mess. But I guess it’s just what we did back then—got into trouble without ever meaning to. Harry always worried, though. Worrying about everything... but never relaxing."

"Yeah," Draco muttered, looking lost in thought. "That was Potter. He was never really free, was he? Always carrying some weight on his shoulders."

Hermione looked down at her hands, blinking back tears. "It’s like he never really had a moment of peace in his life."

Draco nodded, his voice softer now. "But even with all that... he still smiled. He was... remarkable."

They both fell into a quiet moment, lost in the memory of Harry Potter. Slowly, tears began to fall from Hermione's eyes and Malfoy felt his eyes getting surprisingly teary, neither of them trying to stop it, just letting it happen. The grief, the shared memories—it was a catharsis, something they had both needed but hadn’t realized until now.

And as they talked, laughed, and cried over their memories of Harry, a new kind of understanding began to form between them—one built on honesty, vulnerability, and shared loss.

When the conversation finally tapered off, it wasn’t just the memory of Harry that filled the space between them; it was something else too. Something unexpected. They had started talking as enemies, but now—just for a moment—they were something else entirely.

They both fell into silence. Their drinks were now long gone, leaving only the ice clinking in the bottom of their empty glasses. They were no longer just two people from the past—they were two people, meeting each other anew, in a world that had changed them both.

And yet, despite the vulnerability of the conversation, despite the heavy truths, the air between them was thick with something else. Something that neither of them could ignore, something that neither of them had expected. Sexual tension, curiosity—an unspoken question lingering in the space between them.

The quiet stretched on, the freezing December night outside making the warmth of the pub feel all the more comforting. And as Draco’s gaze flickered to hers once again, Hermione realized they were standing on the precipice of something—something neither of them could quite define yet.

Eventually, as the last of the night wore on, they found themselves standing outside the pub, the cold night air biting at their skin. The bar had long since closed, and there was no one else around. It was just the two of them, surrounded by the quiet of the empty streets and with snow falling gently around them, blanketing the cobblestones in a shimmering white. They had kept talking until the bar closed at 3 in the morning, their words still flowing as if time hadn’t passed.

Malfoy stood with his hands tucked into his coat pockets, watching her quietly, his breath kept forming faint misty clouds in the freezing air.

Hermione tilted her head back, her eyes lifting to the sky. Small flakes landed on her flushed face, and she smiled—a soft, unguarded smile that made something twist in his chest. The alcohol painted her cheeks a rosy hue, and her eyes, illuminated by the stars and moonlight, seemed a brighter hazel than he remembered. There was something arresting about the way she stood there, so at ease, so unlike the Hermione Granger who always seemed burdened by the weight of the world.

She leaned back against the wall and turned her head toward him to make her gaze meeting his. His heart thudded faster in his chest, a sensation he couldn’t quite place but didn’t entirely dislike.

“Coffee,” she said abruptly, surprising even herself.

He raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Tomorrow,” she clarified, her cheeks flushing even deeper. “If you’re free. I... I’d like to talk more.”

Draco studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable, though there was a softness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Slowly, he nodded. “I’d like that too.”

As they left the pub, the snow grew heavier, swirling around them in the night air. The freezing temperature was unrelenting, and Malfoy, without a word, slipped his coat off and draped it over her shoulders before she could protest. She hesitated, but the warmth of the fabric—and the faint scent of him, woodsy and clean—was comforting in a way she hadn’t expected.

And for the first time in years, Hermione felt as though the world, once weighed down by grief, might just surprise her again.

And for the first time in years, Draco felt as though he wasn’t as lost as he had once believed, as if a quiet sense of belonging had begun to take root inside him.

Neither of them could say what the future held, but in that fleeting, silent moment, they both sensed the whisper of something new, something delicate and full of promise—something worth exploring, together. Like Alchemy between them.

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Thank you for reading my story. This is response to a prompt and it was a challenge, It was supossed to be a short story. However, I realize I can't make short stories haha, I like long, complex stories filled with emotional moments and strong character development. Still, I did my best to make this story a sort of One Shot. I just posted it today so if the response is good and you want to read more, I can continue writing chapters and develop this story further.

Any comments are more than welcome ♥

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READ THE STORY IN AO3:

[dangerously-human]

There's a biostatistician opening at work, which I'm decently qualified for in everything except experience in SAS (but because it's internal, I bet I could make my case for substituting my experience in R). This is actually under the biostatistics group instead of a lone statistician assigned to another department. I think it would be a great learning opportunity to develop my statistical prowess in a lower-stakes setting, given that I already have a really good reputation at this hospital. While it would be harder than what I do now, I know the general expectations here, and it probably wouldn't be an insane workload. The job duties are largely what I'm looking for, and from the posting, it sounds like I would get a good amount of mentorship. The fact that they're hiring at all right now is a pretty big deal with the research landscape the way it is.

But.

It would be a mostly lateral move - it's only one step up on the job ladder from where I am now, which means not a lot of pay for the title. I wouldn't get to choose my research area, and although I'm interested in pediatric medicine overall, I wouldn't get to leverage my very high content area knowledge in developmental disabilities like I do now. I probably wouldn't have a lot of first-authorship opportunities (although realistically, that is not a dealbreaker, and I could probably ask to take on some more independent projects too). Most of all, I had told myself that, barring necessity, I wasn't going to change jobs at this point until the time comes to look for work in Ireland.

Man, I don't know. Should I try anyway? Should I at least reach out to the hiring manager to talk more about the role? I wish I could find a 0.5 FTE option and split my time, half autism researcher, half statistician. The time probably has come to talk to some people in my current center for broader career advice, knowing that I'm not going to get in trouble even if I say I'm thinking about broadening my horizons - academia is wild that way, people really are invested in me and my career even if it won't continue to benefit them.

Maybe the simplest solution is to wait: I'm really not ready to make this kind of change in this particular season, but if the position is still open as of this summer, then maybe I consider it. I've got some thinking and praying to do, I guess.

[babyrdie]

Anonymous What Helen would say on seeing the Combat between Paris and Menelaus: Ye warlike kings of Europe and Asia, for both of you it stands upon a razor's edge, which of you longsuffering men shall take unhappy me to wife. Let Father Zeus decide, but without Aphrodite's help, lest another thief of wedded women steal me, a disgrace to Greece.

Greek Anthology, 9.475. Translation by W.R. Paton.

I know everyone already knows that Helen doesn't seem to have exactly the most stable relationship with Aphrodite and this is already something that is in The Iliad, considering that Helen even directly disrespects Aphrodite… but it's interesting how in this text of unknown authorship, Helen explicitly speaks of Aphrodite's intervention as something negative. Let Zeus decide, not Aphrodite. Because, last time, nothing good came of it. She trusts Zeus for this decision, but she isn't able to trust Aphrodite (maybe she is no longer able to trust, in the sense that perhaps she once did). Also, although the association of Zeus with Father is a common one, this association being said by Helen has a double meaning. He is Father both because of his position and because he is literally her father.

It kind of makes me curious if this is a short text like that or if it is a fragment, part of something bigger… if it were a fragment, then I would like to know the theme.