#*has headed every PTA he's been a part of*

[mutable-manifestation]

Everyone thinks they're metas but no one gives them shit for it bc 'hey wow, tall lady with 4 arms could snap any of us like twigs.'

At least the non-league members. The league members are trying to figure out why they're there and they just 'We want to check on how Danny is doing,' 'We want to win the bake sale,' 'Pandora wants to ensure Melissa does not make PTA president as she dislikes how the organization might be influenced by her leadership, even if it means claiming the position herself - which she'd rather not as she is busy enough as-is. I am inclined to agree, unfortunately.'

I need the JL to have a crisis over freaking Kronos not only having a kid but angling to, what, help someone else win leadership of a PTA???

Bonus points if Danny's records were all remade to be totally normal, but in a way that makes them obviously fake.

He's named Danny Nightingale.

Clockwork And Pandora Nightingale are listed as his parents and they both have birth records with photos that are literally just them but edited to look small.

They have driver's licenses except they don't have cars, they just use Pandora's chariot - which has a license plate dangling from the back. The front horses have license plates dangling from their necks.

Danny is listed as going to an elementary and middle school that literally no one remembers him going to, but he passed the intake exam for the high school he's at now, so....

It's literally all so very obviously fake but there's no other information available, so none of the civvies want to call them out on it (they just. stare. when anyone mentions 'xyz is odd' and it gets dropped) and the JL would prefer they play house while they figure out why they're 'actually' there (bc there's no way they're just playing pta parents for an actual child, right?)

Bonus Bonus points if this AU Danny in Fenton (or I guess Nightingale) form is completely normal. Ghost traits don't leak over at all (ghost form can be spookier tho) except the occasionally green-eye, but that's a voluntary thing for him.

So you've got the ghost of Kronos and Pandora raising this (seemingly) Completely Normal Kid

Guardian Spirits 7.2.23

DP x DC. Clockwork, Danny, Pandora, Robin, Superboy, The Big Three, confused teachers. Clockwork is Kronos.

“That,” Diana says, sounding like she just got thrown face-first through a building and is struggling to regain her breath, “is Lord Kronos and Lady Pandora.”

Ah.

Clark would’ve said they don’t have any heartbeats.

Neither of them felt the need to play captain obvious and point out things like glowing, floating, blue skin, or obviously not human.

Danny got away from his parents and Amity and is attending school under the name Phantom —because why be subtle when you don’t plan on showing anyone your ghost half. The same school Robin and Superboy are attending.

Some sort of parental advisory meeting or parents day or something— is called, and Bruce and Clark attend in their civvies, with Diana tagging along as the designated holder of the brain cell.

Clockwork and Pandora show up as Danny’s guardians, not making the slightest effort to hide anything at all.

Day (617/100) in my #∞daysofwriting @the-wip-project 7th of Feb

[amorisxx]

Snickerdoodle a.d.

pairing: Art Donaldson x reader prompt: Imagine being that parent who always brings baked goods to the PTA meetings and generally getting along with everyone really well. But for some reason Art Donaldson says something that rubs you the wrong way one night. warnings: smut 18+, car sex, piv, cheating, adults acting like horny teenagers, flashbacks, not proofread word count: 2.4K a/n: I wrote this in one sitting just from seeing this post 🤭

part ii | part iii | part iv

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

He notices he’s offended you by the way you stop talking directly to him, looking everywhere but him. Smiling at everyone but him. You’re giving your undivided attention to anyone who speaks but when he opens his mouth you seem much more interested in your nails.

Art has known you since he's been coming to these meetings. He knows that you offer a polite smile to everyone, but he'd grown used to the small smiles you'd give him. The secret grins and the sarcastic eye rolls you shared with him when Nancy got a bit too controlling or when Dan overshared about his marriage.

You would playfully nudge his elbow when Cynthia inevitably brought up her small knitting business. You’d been initially interested, always loving a good sweater, until you found out the only things she knit were small replicas of pets.

You would discreetly play tic tac toe or hangman on a napkin while the more aggressive moms argued about where to host the next school event, or when the guest speaker for the night would drone on and on.

Once, you baked snickerdoodle cookies and Art ate three of them in one sitting, then asked to take some home for “Lily.” So, you made sure to bake snickerdoodle cookies almost every time you brought snacks. Everyone knew the circular red tin you’d bring was Art’s.

The two of you didn’t really talk outside of the PTA, but Art considered you his friend at these things.

Which is why he should've known not to bring up your recently divorced ex-husband during the meeting. He’d simply been trying to make sure the headcount for this year’s Fall Fest committee was right after Nancy had thrusted the clipboard into his hands. He was tasked with making sure everyone on the list was still showing up. When Art asked you if your husband would still be attending, you went silent, your lips tensing up like you’d tasted something sour.

“Are you really asking me that right now?”

Art stammered. “I just wasn’t sure…”

You scoffed at him disbelieving.

“Well when he finally gets his head out of that whore’s ass then maybe he’ll be able to let you know.”

He doesn’t say anything.

Before he hands the clipboard back, he makes sure to draw a line through your ex-husband’s name.

Art tries to apologize after the meeting is over. Insisting on walking you to your car and carrying your dessert containers back for you. His self deprecating little smile makes you roll your eyes, but you turn for him to follow you anyway. You silently lead the way to your car keeping a couple steps ahead of him. Despite his attempts to look away, Art’s eyes stay glued to the sway of your hips the whole way.

Once you pop the trunk and gesture for him to place the containers down, you finally look him in the eyes for the first time since he’d pissed you off. Art shoves his hands in his pockets, telling you he’s really sorry for what he said. That he wasn’t thinking. He wants to make it up to you.

You purse your lips, look at the way his eyes seem hopeful yet a little too pleading for an offense so small. You tilt your head to the side, taking in his features before eventually telling him that “it’s fine,” and that you forgive him. He seems to visibly relax at this and you can’t help wondering why he would be so hung up on your forgiveness. After all, it was really an overreaction on your part.

You tell him as much and reassure him that you don’t need anything, he doesn’t need to make it up to you. He grabs your hand then, insisting that he wants to.

Art has always been this way, you think, all placating and overly apologetic when he thinks he’s done something wrong. You’d chalked it up to the media training you know he must’ve received. Being agreeable probably made his PR manager’s job ten times easier. Not that you didn’t believe he was genuinely a kind person, but you knew even Art might be overcompensating every now and then.

You’d seen the way he could be snarky without remorse before. The two of you would basically laugh about it later. You’d also seen how he never hid the way his eyes would linger on your cleavage. The way he’d give you a small, bashful smile when you’d catch him, his smirk only growing wider the more you blushed.

Art Donaldson could be sneaky.

ᯓ

He’d never been ashamed about being touchy with you. Placing a warm hand on your arm or back when greeting one another, letting his fingers skim your hand on the table next to his while he listened to speakers. The touching seemed innocent enough until one night when he’d walked you to your car after the two of you had stayed longer. You had been distracted during the meeting.

Art stayed and listened as you told him about your husband and how he’d come home late after you planned a romantic evening for the two of you the night before. You made sure your son was at your parents’ house, made his favorite meal, and lit candles around the house. The two of you had decided to schedule date nights per your therapist’s suggestion. When 1 am rolled around, and your husband had returned none of your calls, you scraped the food into tupperware containers and got ready for bed. He came home with apologies and excuses about getting caught up in the office. He had already eaten, and he smelled of a perfume you didn’t own but had grown to recognize.

That night, you told Art that you were sure your husband was cheating on you. He told you that he understood how you felt. You didn’t believe him. Tashi was perfect.

After your tears had dried, and Art managed to pull a few laughs out of you, the both of you decided it was time to call it a night. You moved to give Art a casual hug, but he wrapped his arms around you so tightly that you couldn’t help but melt into it, burying your face in his chest. You remembered him smelling warm, like amber.

Art had rubbed your back as he held you, whispered that he was sorry that your husband was a dumbass. You huffed out a laugh, pulling away to look at him. He’d brought his hand up to your cheek, his other hand on the small of your back. You smiled at him through your eyelashes before letting your head drop down with a sigh.

Your cheeks burned as you took in how your legs were tangled with his. Art had tilted his head to get a better look at you again, but you’d stuck to hiding your face against his chest.

He huffed and let his chin fall to your shoulder. You still refused to look his way, turning to watch some trees. You felt both his hands on your back now.

“What are you thinking about?” He whispered.

“That we said we should go home like 5 min ago.” His hands traveled lower. “You?” You asked shakily. You could feel his breath warm against your neck.

“That I might not be any better than your husband.”

Your eyes widened. Art’s palms firmly cupped your ass. In contrast, his lips were pressed gently to the skin of your neck.

“Art!” Your hands flew to his hair.

He laughed into your neck.

You slapped his arm, but when his eyes met yours and his lips were mere inches away from yours, you let your eyes flutter shut.

His breath fanned your lips. He smelled like snickerdoodle cookie.

Then, his phone rang.

Art had pulled away from you, turning around to answer the call. You could tell it was Tashi. He’d been honest, telling her that he’d stayed late talking to you. At the mention of your name, he paused and looked over his shoulder.

“Tashi says hi.”

ᯓ

The two of you never brought up the almost kiss again, but you knew Art hadn’t been sorry. The next time he saw your husband, he’d smirked and told him how lucky he was to have such a great wife. Your husband, ever the narcissist, soaked it all in, pulling you in by the waist, showing you off like a shiny toy. When he turned away, Art had winked at you.

ᯓ

So, you know that Art is either laying it on thick or feels extremely remorseful about reminding you of your cheating ex-husband.

When he grabs your hand, insisting on finding some way to make it up to you, you see a look of desperation in his eyes that looks new.

Your eyes drop to where his large hand covers your own, then they travel up his toned arm until you find his face, flitting between his eyes and his lips. And for some reason, you’re leaning in. Maybe it’s your way of reassuring him that you guys are good. Either way, he’s not moving back. You’re gripping his forearm with your free hand and suddenly your lips are on his.

You’re not sure if it was his tongue or yours that first went seeking out the other, but now you two are sharing sloppy kisses on the empty school parking lot.

When his left palm presses into your cheek and you feel that cold metal band sting your skin, you pull away with a gasp, remembering where you are, who he is, and that he has a damn wedding ring on. This is Art. PTA Art. You know his wife, for god’s sake. You’ve hosted play dates between their daughter and your son. You carpool with them. You curse and back away from him.

“I’m sorry, I—I don’t know why I did that. I shouldn’t have...”

Art shakes his head, stepping closer to you. He’s looking at you with those damn eyes again. Like he’ll break if you say the wrong thing.

“I—we, we shouldn’t have done that, Art.”

He shakes his head again. Your palm comes up to hold him back, but it doesn’t work as he simply grabs ahold of the hand on his chest and presses himself against you more. His forehead comes down to lean on yours. His eyes closed.

“You don’t understand,” he sighs. “I want you.”

“But you’re married Art…”

“I want you.” He repeats. “I’ve wanted you…for awhile now.”

And though you already know this, it still shocks you that he’s actually saying it now. Before you have time to register it, he’s back on you and you don’t know if it’s because you’re afraid to break him or if you’ve just always been this selfish, but you let him press you against the trunk of your car. You let him push his tongue into your mouth, let his big hands knead the flesh of your hips and ass. Let him lick and nip at your neck, nibble on your earlobe.

You let Art push you into the backseat of your car. You let him settle between your legs, guiding his lips to yours, wrapping your legs around his waist.

He’s pressing his hips into yours rocking against you as he pushes your top up. Art’s hands frantically work at your bra, impatiently bending the wire in the process of taking it off. You gasp at his eagerness but can’t say anything as he’s already wrapping his mouth around your nipple making you arch your back up off the leather seats. His hands are gripping your thighs and shoving your skirt up when he releases your nipple with a pop.

He’s up long enough to tear his shirt off and for your equally impatient hands to reach for his pants. His shorts are barely past his balls before he’s back on you. Kissing all over your lips, jaw, neck. Art groans when his fingers find their way to your soaked underwear, rubbing his thumb from your slit to your clit through the fabric. You whine and rock your hips into each movement. You pant into his open mouth as he pulls them to the side, letting the air hit your bare cunt. He dips his thumb into your entrance then drags it up to sloppily circle your clit.

You’re moaning loudly into his mouth, begging him for more. Art smiles against your lips as he takes himself in his hand. He lets his head sweetly kiss your sticky clit, and he asks if you want him to put it in.

You nod eagerly.

"Yeah?" He grunts, tapping his head against you in a taunting manner.

You nod again and let him press against your opening.

Art covers your mouth with his when he finally pushes into you, stifling both of your moans. He gets his arms around your waist, holding you as he rocks into your pussy. You’re whimpering and squeezing around him like you haven’t had dick in years, and Art thinks he might pass out when you start bucking up into him and begging him to fuck you.

He doesn’t even care that he won’t last long. He can’t deny you. So, he wraps your thighs tighter around his waist and pushes himself forward. Your mouth falls open as Art slides out and pushes back into you with a grunt. Your hands are in his hair, pulling at the short strands. You mouth at his jaw as his thighs slap against you.

Art buries his head into your neck as he frantically fucks into your tight hole, and he’s whining that he’s close. His fingers that have been playing with your clit are slippery with your juices and you clench your thighs, nodding with him in agreement.

You end up letting Art Donaldson cum inside you. You let him rub your clit until you orgasm around his dick that’s still buried in you.

You let him help you redress. He’d winced when he saw the mess he made of you between your legs. You ignore the way you can tell he wants to say sorry.

Once you’re both dressed and you’re standing against your car with wobbly legs, Art tells you that he still wants to make it up to you.

You roll your eyes.

“Good night, Art.” You get into the driver’s seat.

“I’m serious.”

Your hand hesitates on the door handle. You look back at him and his pleading eyes and his pathetic yet charming smile.

“Your wife has my number.”

And then, you shut the door.

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

a/n: reader reminds me of Anna Kendrick’s character in A Simple Favor, sweet but also kinda toxic

thanks for inspiring this @artdcnaldson <3

[magewritesstories]

[ ꜱᴀᴛᴏʀᴜ ɢᴏᴊᴏ ] ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇɪɢʜʙᴏᴜʀʜᴏᴏᴅ ᴍᴏᴍ ᴀꜱꜱᴏᴄɪᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

summary: just a simple one-shot of your life before Megumi went to Jujutsu Tech tw: implied fem!reader but no pronouns are used note: listen, gojo has a chokehold on me but domestic!gojo? ooohh boy words: 811 (it's pretty short) jujutsu kaisen masterlist

YOU BROWSE THE ISLE BOREDLY. Some old Ed Sheeran song playing over the low-quality speaker of the grocery store as your eyes scour the colourful array of cereal boxes in front of you.

It had been an annoying experience this morning, waking up to find not only all the Captain Crunch cereal but also the instant coffee gone.

Usually Gojo does all the grocery shopping (which leads to an unequal ratio of healthy- to junkfoods.) But he's out on a mission and you can't survive without coffee.

So, here you are, trying to find a good cereal.

You could just get Captain Crunch, but Megumi complained about it last time so that was a no-go.

"You should get that one," A feminine voice spoke up as you were reading the label of a bright pink box.

You turn around to face the unfamiliar voice. "Excuse me?"

An elder woman, maybe ten years older than you, holds up a dark green box with what seems to be the picture of a monkey and chocolate shells.

"This cereal—it's more nutritious but my kids love it because it tastes like chocolate."

"I'm sorry, do I know you?" You question, a little taken aback. The woman's smile falters a little and suddenly you think you've made a mistake. Had you met her at a parent-teacher conference, maybe?

But thankfully she quickly reassures you. "Oh, no sorry, I'm Saori Aino," She introduces, maneuvering past her cart to shake your hand, "I live in apartment 107. I suppose I got a little ahead of myself there."

"Ah, okay, it's alright," You reply quickly, smiling somewhat awkwardly as you shake her hand, "I'm Y/N L/N."

The woman nods as she hands you the box of cereal, letting out a soft giggle. "Oh, I know. My son goes to the same middle-school as your daughter—tells me how Tsumiki can never shut up about how amazing you are."

The comment makes you go a little red as you smile, "Really?"

"Oh yeah, honestly we're all dying to meet you—you should swing by a PTA meeting some time," Saori replies, "I know all the other parents would love to meet you. Bring your husband too!"

Before you can reply that technically Satoru isn't your husband yet, Saori continues excitedly. "Actually, the spring dance is coming up, and we need volunteer chaperones."

"Oh, uhm, I suppose I could check my schedule..." You reply, sheepishly rubbing the back of your neck.

"That's great!" She replies, clasping her hands together excitedly before checking her watch, "Ah, I should really get going and make dinner but think about what I said. And don't be shy to ask for a favour every now and then, we parents should stick together, right?"

Saori doesn't give you the time to reply as she quickly walks off with a small wave. Leaving you standing there with a box of cereal in your hand, wondering what had just happened.

You're lazing on the couch—halfheartedly listening to the protagonist of the movie monologue—when Satoru get home that night.

He leans over the back of the couch, watching along for a couple of minutes before jumping over it and plopping down next to you.

You quickly wing your legs over his lap as he takes of his blindfold, tiredly resting your head on his shoulder.

"How'd the mission go?"

"As always, it was a walk in the park."

You playfully roll you eyes at his bragging tone. "How was it here? Anything exciting happen?" Satoru asks, wrapping an arm around your shoulder as he relaxes.

"Nothing special, just ran some errands, helped Tsumiki with math—at least I think I did, pretty sure we were both crying about the primitive at some point."

Then you suddenly remember your interaction at the store. "Oh, and I think I'm officially a part of the neighbourhood mom association."

Gojo peels his eyes away form the glowing screen, "What?"

"Yeah, I was grocery shopping today—because somebody finished all the coffee and didn't bother to restock—" He feigns an innocent face at that—"And one of the moms that lives in the building walked up to me."

He raises a brow at the statement. "She started talking 'bout how the PTA would love to have us join them, they need chaperones for Tsumiki's spring dance, and how we shouldn't be shy and ask for help if we need it, etc."

"Congratulations," He replies sarcastically, grinning at the proud smile on your face. You nod, "I think I deserve to be recognized as a parent after putting up with you and Megumi."

Satoru just rolls his eyes playfully.

"Oh and by the way, everyone thinks you're my husband."

He lets out a laugh at that statement, placing a sloppy kiss on you cheek, "Yeah, I should probably get on that, huh?"

"Probably."

[daniclaytcn]

the ‘sunshine personified’ / ‘he makes everyone around him happy’ thing is sooo interesting because i don’t think we’ve really seen that from buck, have we? and by that i specifically mean in the fanon context of buck being the social PTA dad at all of chris’s school functions while eddie broods in the corner and only wants to talk to buck. if anything, we’ve seen the opposite behavior with eddie — he’s clearly good friends with chris’s friends’ parents, he was so happy and glowy when he first met the 118, he befriended may and linda so easily at dispatch, and i could go on and on.

he just seems to connect with people so easily, and i think a lot of that genuine friendliness is lost on people because he also has a tendency to get casually snarky with people he isn’t so fond of, whether it’s annoying temporary coworkers or selfish people on calls or opportunistic reporters. the same thing goes for his private nature vs. buck’s bleeding heart — it’s assumed that eddie isn’t a people person because he likes to keep his innermost feelings close to his chest and it’s also assumed that buck is good at instantly forming connections bc his feelings spill out of him at all times.

and like. it’s not that buck isn’t a kind and friendly person, but i do feel like his specialty is deep acts of love for the people he loves. idk if i’m articulating this right but i’m trying to point out that he’s never more ‘sunshine personified’ than when he’s with the 118 and co. he would do anything for them and he lights up around them in a way that he doesn’t really do with anyone else. and we haven’t seen him be so casually close to people outside that friend group.

when we got a glimpse of connor and buck’s friendship, it seemed more about what they could do for each other than about true connection. when we got that episode about buck and red, a lot of it was projection on buck’s part re. his fear of abandonment and his desire not to let his future turn out like red’s and it was also about his need to fix things for everyone else so he can feel like he’s needed. when he met lucy, he was desperate to fill a void and not feel as hollow as he felt going home to taylor kelly every night with his sister and his brother in law and his partner gone.

don’t get me wrong, i’m not trying to ascribe selfish motivations to buck bc i do believe he always tries to do the right thing, but when it comes to people outside of the 118, with the way it’s been written in canon, i feel like those dynamics have always been more about his own issues than they’ve been about actual friendship. and this isn’t even getting into how he acts when he feels like someone new is encroaching on his territory (see: eddie in 2x01 and lena). idk….i just think that kind of casual connection comes so much easier to eddie for whatever reason. maybe it’s because his abandonment issues are a whole other flavor, or because eddie’s upbringing was so different from buck’s. either way, it’s so interesting and ppl blinded by fanon are really missing out. i apologize for the long ass rambling and i don’t think i really articulated this well, so TL;DR — fanon sunshine buck and broody eddie do not exist in canon and i’m Very excited to see the way that mr. possessive, jealous, broody evan buckley acts when eddie meets someone new this week :)

no, you're so right about all of this, though! buck genuinely does light up and is at his most comfortable and golden retriever-like around the 118, because he sees them as family and trusts them so much—and i think people get carried away and attribute the same thing to everything else (like, for example, the social PTA dad thing). when in canon, buck on multiple occasions has not dealt with new people too well—whether it was eddie, or lena, or ravi...and now, as it looks like, tommy. and you kinda hit the nail on the head about how most of buck's relationships outside the 118 being very transactional in nature up to this point, it's sad, but it's true.

eddie is the complete opposite in this regard, though, like, the guy goes around collecting new friends like they're pokemon. lol. he is so wildly different to the fandom portrayal of him as this anti-social loner that i struggle with understanding how people even got there in the first place (i mean, i know why. but still).

anyway, buck's issues with jealousy and insecurity are sooo interesting to delve into as character flaws and so much more compelling than fandom's portrayal of him as a perfect angel baby who's never done anything wrong, but 🤷🏽‍♀️🤷🏽‍♀️ at least i have canon giving me the stuff i want lol

[5five5five5five5five5five]

please old man/bookclub five headcanons, I loved ur last post about him!

hope you're feeling okay :]

Gasp!

I'm going to assume normal bookclub bc idk what s4 "bookclub" is. But I can totally ramble off about him in a casual club for books.

*he reads the books too fast and gets more peeved at the others who end up going very very slow. If someone doesn't finish a book, he admittly makes a comment "why are you in a book club if you can't finish a book is beyond me but-" old man shrug. It's not a fight worth having, he's just being a dick.

* brings the members strawberries and other fresh produce when he can. He likes showing off the stuff he grows and brings snacks.

*gets REALLY into the books. It's like he gets a micro fandom to be in every month. He reads it though like 3 times and then listens to the audio book once. Looks up if there's anything else. Maybe even discovers fanfiction...but he tries not to get that desperate.....he's read a few for particularly addictive books.

*has given a huge ramble about how the Great Gatsby would have been better and a lot of stuff settled if Gatsby and caraway kissed. He does it so casually too like he's not trying to make a progressive point or spark bigger queer discussion. He just genuinely thinks that's the answer to the book. More man kissing.

* speaking of, the more queer books they end up reading, the more he questions his everything. He probably has gone up to Viktor about stuff in these books and try to weasel out a "no it's not like that. Your totally a normal cishet man five." but neh it's ALWAYS "yeah that seems very realistic to the queer existence. Why so curious?" And he ends up not being able to admit he connects with said books. Viktor knows but he's not going to hound his brother any time soon. Five knows once he leaves the closet,there's people waiting to be supportive.

*the old ladies there can't stop babying him. He tries very hard to be as old man and as mature as he can but they don't listen and pinch his cheeks and pat his head. He is trying to do less sudden grandma wrist breaking to he takes it for the most part. They can be wrong. He will keep doing what he does. And he hates to admit the attention from women in his age range is nice. Sad he can't make any moves.

* for the holidays the bookclub goes caroling. Five isn't a fan but tags along. They most likely end up at one of his siblings houses and he gets cold feet. They can't see him in a dorky sweater and singing. Last Christmas he threw a fit about sweaters. But if he doesn't move, the club will leave him in the snow. Ruthless old farts.

Allison answers the door. Around 5 old people, 4 local parents and......five??? They stare daggers at eachother as five poorly sings oh holy night with the group. Then leaves. The other members noticed the tension but didn't want to say much.

*Lila tried to join once to get 'in' with the parents that are involved but was so booooored. "Five, no one should be having this much fun talking this much about a book. Period. Im almost concerned that you have finally gone senial."

*if five didn't like a book, he makes a PowerPoint on why and how. He is very detailed in his opinions. He wishes the others would do the same but no body can match his freak.

*he brings mr. Pennycrumb with him bc service dog and everyone there loves him.

* I think everyone assumes five is just a very lonely mentally or physically ill young man and try there best to be nice. He isn't fond of there borderline pity but he enjoys there company none the less.

* Diana from the PTA makes the best lemon cookies. Five eats more than he should.

*on top of book club, they like to take outings together to walk around and see the community. Do easy elderly friendly geocashes and eat at local cafes. Five likes when they go to the library because then they can snoop around for more books.

I hope you like these :3

[kidrauhlschik]

4. Tangled Memories - Lee Know AU

Post Traumatic Amnesia (PTA) is a transient state of confusion, disorientation and memory loss that occurs immediately following a traumatic brain injury. PTA is sometimes also referred to as post traumatic confusional state and can occur from the moment of injury until the return of continuous memory.

The accident was a tragedy.

But it was the best tragedy to ever happen to you.

-

-

Final Part - See pt 1, 2, & 3 on the Masterlist linked above

Warnings: angst, f!reader, enemies to lovers, drunk driving, gaslighting, Fighting, yelling, cursing, angst, heartbreak, lies, angst, accidents, not proofread, minho is mean, lmk if I missed anything!!

Words: 2.2k

-

You find the note the next morning and immediately crumple it up and throw it in the trash. Since when has Minho been so sentimental and needy?

You can understand that he's over whatever rivalry he two of you used to have, but you're not. Up until the day before, you thought Minho was good, perfect even, but opening your eyes and remembering all of the awful things he's made you deal with made things so much different.

For starters, you can't believe that you trusted him. He's just as manipulative and sneaky as he's always been. He took advantage of your vulnerable state and made you depend on him. He would have been okay with you dying that day and all of the sudden he's not.

Yet, he also coaxed you down from your panic attacks, he made sure to always available for when you needed him, he stayed with you around the clock when you were injured. Thing is, you wouldn't have gotten injured if it wasn't for him.

The back and forth is overwhelming so instead of pondering on the fact you go to check your phone, which probably made things even worse.

Chris: He told me. Im so sorry. Its all my fault.

Innie: Wanna talk? I heard what happened.

Seungmin: I can't believe you didn't tell us you were remembering stuff.

Hyunjin: I'm sorry for keeping you in the dark. We need to talk.

Lix: Hey wanna come over? I can make us brownies and we can talk things out.

Changbin: Are you okay?

Jisung: Minho is really sorry. I am too. We all are. Can we talk it out?

Chris: Please?

Not wanting to deal with everything right now, you shut your phone off and begin your day. It's time to clean up and enroll in classes again. You should probably catch up with your other friends as well, you'd been very distant because you were always hanging out with Minho. It's best to keep busy and avoid thinking about that snake.

Tragically, as snakes would have it, Minho manages to slither his way inside your thoughts on a regular basis for the next month. As much as you hate it, you couldn't help seeing him in everything. He was in your sheets, in your kitchen, next to you on the couch, in the park, in the flowers, and in the sunset. Everything reminded you of him, every version of him, the bad and the good, and you're not sure which one you prefer.

Classes were to start in a week, through your circumstances, the school was able to let you enroll late to your classes, but you were now a year behind. There's so much to catch up on, yet your brain allows something to distract you from your studies, and that something is always Minho. He hasn't made an effort to make contact with you, which reassures you that whatever he had going on was all made up in his head. Maybe it was all a moment of hysteria.

The hysteria felt awfully real to you though. You can't help but doubt yourself and ask if the sleezy, ignorant, cold Lee Minho actually felt something for you, or if you felt something for him. That's why it's better to keep busy rather than to sit and ponder.

Chris: Wanna come over? It'll just be me and Jisung :)

You had forgiven the guys awfully quickly for your predicament. You could see why they'd put Minho in that situation in a moment of anger, they didn't even know that you were remembering your past, and although you wished they would have stepped up more to impede the shit show that happened with Minho, you can tell that they're sorry. They're your best friends after all, but you were still keeping them at an arms distance for the time being. Except for Hyunjin. He always encouraged you to chase after Minho and you couldn't help but too feel betrayed at that. No one else pushed you into his arms but Hyunjin did, and who knows? Maybe if he hadn't, you could've remained civil with Minho instead of playing house.

When you walk inside of Chan's dorm, the smell of warm pizza welcomes you like a warm hug.

"Hey! How are you?" Jisung asks from the couch beside Chan.

"I'm good, thank you." You offer a small smile in return as you take off your coat to lay it on the nearest clean, flat surface.

The place is a mess, there a cups everywhere, the trash is overflowing, and the entire floor had become a laundry basket. "I don't keep you guys in check for a year and all of the sudden your place becomes a pigs den?" You laugh while sprawling yourself on Chris' couch, throwing your legs over Jisung.

"Hey! It wasn't us, it was -" Jisung gets cut off by Chan discretely pinching his leg under the blanket. The younger winces but remains silent.

"Yeah, Jisung's been a mess lately." Chris smiles apologetically.

"Haha. Yeah, sorry." Jisung adds.

You couldn't help but feel as if they were hiding something, but before you could question them, the front door swings open.

"Jisung. What the hell do you want? I was in the middle of practice." The second Minho spots you, he freezes like he did before. Loss for words, he just stares at you as if he'd seen a ghost. He wants to walk out and get as far away from you as he can, but he also wants to run up to you and hold you in his arms. He wants to apologize over and over again, he wants to beg for your love, but he knows better than to think that you'd accept him.

You immediately hop off the couch, quickly on guard, wishing that he wasn't standing in front of you. Seeing him in your memories was very different than seeing him in real life. He looked thinner, tired, and restless. The Minho you had been seeing for the past year looked happy and healthy. Now he was drowning in his hoodie, his hair was messy, and his expression read exhaustion. You couldn't help the worry that seeped its way into your brain.

"What are you doing here?" You ask.

"I live here." Still staring at you in shock, unfortunately, it seemed that he'd gotten even better at hiding his emotions.

"What about your place?"

"I got kicked out for not maintaining the place while I lived with you."

Was he implying that this was your fault?

"You never had to live with me in the first place." An argument. Something you were both so used to, now caused an ache in both of your chests. Your words catch at the base of your throat, and Minho doesn't even have the energy to argue.

Minho finally takes his eyes off of you, scanning the area, looking at the mess he'd made at his friends dorm. The past month had been hell for him. He kept on beating himself up anytime he had a second alone with his thoughts. The only good thing he had done since he left your place was joining the school's dance team, hoping that doing something he enjoyed could take his mind off of you. He was wrong. Every time he showed up to practice, he remembered that you were the only reason he was doing this, not giving up on his dream. He was undereating and overworking himself to the bone, which was not the healthiest coping mechanism but the other option was to rot away in the couch.

He nods and makes a move to turn away, leaving the dorm again.

"Don't walk away Lee Minho!" He pauses his steps but doesn't turn around.

"You wanted me to leave."

"It's not that easy! I don't know what I want okay? I'm in shambles. I want you to leave, but I want you to come back right after. I want you to cry but it hurts to see you in pain. I trust you but I hate you. Worst of all I love you, but I don't even know what's real anymore." You throw your arms up in desperation, not even realizing that Jisung and Chris had left the area long ago. "I just want to know what's real."

Minho finally turns to look at you with an expression that can best be read as indignation. Or was it desperation?

"You want to know what's real? The real thing is that I want to know every part of you, every scar, every bruise, I want to trace the map of you! All of you and every thing about you. My fingers a compass, and your freckles the constellations that I will chart in my heart. That way, when I close my eyes I'll have you in my stars forever, because guess what? You're already in everything else! You're in the sun, in the air, and in my reflection. I'm drowning in the memory of you and the worst part is that I can't even see you!" Minho walks towards you but you stay frozen in place.

"It's never been the way you looked, it was always the way you were. You were like me, both broken and angry. It wasn't until I saw you behind the walls and I was able to see you bare. I would have fallen in love with you with my eyes closed, but I never could because we never allowed each other the chance. You told me that you didn't want to be the shell of who you are, so why can't you let yourself be happy?" He's face to face with you know, a mere couple of feet apart. He was no longer loud, but more so calm. His plea turning into a confession.

"From the moment I saw you making a fool of yourself in that park, I knew that you were worth the broken heart. Finish breaking my heart, and you'll find yourself inside. I'm sorry, but I'll never find the right words for you. You are my everything, always, and even that is not enough."

"Minho stop." Somewhere in the middle of his speech, your eyes decided to betray you and tears were now freely streaming down your face.

"I'm glad I found you, the real you, because before you, I never knew what to wish for. Want me to be honest?" He laughs and runs his fingers through his hair. "I'm terrified of letting you in. I'm scared to see myself more clearly through your eyes, wondering if I'm good enough. I already lost you, but the truth is that not having you scares me more than all the other truths of love. So please, look at me in the eyes and tell me that I'm not being real right now."

He's mere inches away from you, searching for an answer on your face.

So many thoughts but no clear answer runs through your mind, you're just overwhelmed by his confession, the situation, his mere presence, is not letting you think clearly whatsoever. So you break eye contact and make a bee line for the door. While holding the door knob, you stop and say your last words.

"Sorry Minnie."

Minnie.

The one term of endearment that Minho allows to give him hope.

-

Of course on the first day of class you'd be running late. You hated being late and the stress of studying is weighing heavy on your shoulders. How could the morning be any worse?

Luck is a funny thing though. Just when you think things couldn't get worse, they always do.

You bump into someone that simply continues walking, making you drop all of your notecards and papers on the floor. You immediately bend down to begin collecting everything, but there is so much going on around you. People playing around, others trying to find a seat, and more reuniting with their friends after the summer. So much people, so many noises, this is why you're never late to anything. The stress begins to build even more, to the point where your hands begin to shake, needing to move faster in order for you to find your own seat.

His hand comes out of nowhere. Body shoving away the people that were stepping on your stuff, rushing to pick everything up to help you. He hands everything he collected in a neat pile and you cautiously take it. He then turns to the nearest desk on his left, grabbing two coffees and handing you one.

"Hey, I'm Lee Minho. Looks like we're in the same class. Wanna sit together?"

Starting from where you left off was messy, but maybe starting from the beginning wouldn't be so bad. It will take time, but it might be worth it. If everything was real, it will definitely be worth it and more.

"I'm Y/N. I'm down, but I have to warn you, I can be a bit mean at times."

He laughs and hovers a hand on your lower back to guide you to the two empty seats next to each other.

"I wouldn't change that for the world." He gives you a small smile that could also be a smirk. He had the audacity to be cocky?

Despite that, you can't help the little ray of sunshine that warms you from the inside.

“I hope you mean that Lee Minho.”

“I always mean what I say.”

-

A/N: okay, i am not in love with the ending but honestly if it was up to me, i would've ended it on the last chapter. I'm trying something new w happy endings. Thank you so much for reading!!

TAGLIST: @stanstraykidsskz @weareapackofstrays @linos-kitten @cassidymb121

[embossross]

The Devotion of the Girl in the Mirror

Chapter 5 >> Chapter 6 >> Masterlist

✣ Pairing: Rindou x AFAB fem!Reader w/ a chapter cameo of reader/yuzuha

✣ Warning: 18+ explicit content, minors DNI

✣ Series: part of the In the Belly of the Beast fic universe

✣ Chapter CW: ptv sex, oral (blowjobs & eating out), choking, degradation and praise, cock worship, edging and orgasm denial/control

✣ Story CWs: BDSM dob/sub relationship; sex (oral, ptv, pta, etc.); genre typical drug use, alcohol, smoking

✣ Synopsis: A story of two lonely people find love for better or worse. Or, dom!Rindou is sweet on his girl. Or, on paper, you and Rindou have nothing in common. But sometimes chemistry defies logic, and with every conversation, you find yourself more bewitched until all you see, smell, or hear is Rindou.

✣ Word Count: ~10.8k

A great clenching of his bowels catapults Rindou into consciousness. Nausea and the certainty that he is going to puke chases soon after. Rindou stumbles to his feet in the direction of the bathroom only to discover the door is not there. The pressure in his head increases, a high vibrancy of pain accompanied by a vertiginous warping of his vision and equilibrium.

He vomits right on the carpet.

When his stomach is empty, Rindou takes stock of his surroundings. He is shirtless, wearing an unfamiliar pair of YSL sweats. The bedroom is twice as large as his with a sitting area opposite the bed and subdued paintings of hunting dogs and long-dead kings peering down from the walls. By the puddle of bile seeping into the fibers of the carpet, a meowing British Shorthair pokes around curiously until Rindou shoos it away.

This is Ran’s bedroom.

Regaining his bearings, Rindou makes his way to Ran’s bathroom. He helps himself to Ran’s toothbrush and drinks water straight from the tap until his guts gurgle miserably and he vomits again, this time into the toilet. The process repeats itself one more time before his hangover recedes enough to risk leaving the bathroom. He grabs a hand towel to throw over the mess he left on the floor in a quick detour before he hunts for his brother.

It is some indiscriminate hour of the day. The curtains are drawn tight in every room, blocking the sun or moon from view, and Rindou can’t find his phone in the master bedroom where he slept, which should concern him more, but he is too disoriented to worry. Ran isn’t in the kitchen or dining room, his study or living room, so Rindou checks the guest bedroom.

A long, thin lump shaped more like a body pillow than a man though much too tall, hides beneath the comforter in the guest room. A grandfather clock with the chimes removed shows the time to be near one, presumably in the afternoon. Too early to wake Ran without a fight.

“Oi, where’s my phone?” Rindou barks. He wants to ask why he’s here because somewhere between vomiting the second and third time, Rindou realized he has no memories of how he came to sleep in his brother’s bed. He remembers the sight of your teary face in the bathroom – it’s crystal clear unfortunately – remembers finishing the bottle of bourbon in the car, remembers driving – oh fuck and he should not have been driving black out last night. Shit. The memories grow glossier as the hours progress, the scope of his mental vision shrinking like a burning photograph, until eventually there is nothing but emptiness left.

He wants to fill in the blanks of his hazy memory, but admitting to Ran that he blacked out like a sorority girl after her third vodka cranberry is too harrowing, so Rindou asks after his phone instead.

The lump that is his brother groans and shifts but does not emerge from beneath the covers. Rindou grips the railing at the foot of the bedframe and gives it a weighty shake until Ran’s head pops out. His eyes are covered by a sleep mask, hair a mess.

“Phone. Where is it?” Rindou says.

“Go away,” Ran hisses, or at least that’s how Rindou interprets the garbled words as Ran burrows back beneath his blankets.

“I need my phone now, dickhead. Come one, where is it?”

Only Ran’s arm appears this time, feeling around on the bedside table until he finds a paperweight, which he promptly flings at Rindou’s head. It is well-aimed and thrown with enough force to knock him unconscious but too slow by half, and Rindou easily dodges aside.

“Ran –!”

“Coffee! Coffee first!” Rindou tries to interrupt but Ran talks right over him. “Coffee!”

Resigned and more than a little annoyed, Rindou returns to the kitchen and brews a pot of instant coffee. No sugar, no milk. Exactly the way he knows his brother hates. While rifling through Ran’s cabinets for a mug, his stomach flips again, so Rindou decides to eat a late breakfast.

Thirty minutes later, Rindou sits, chowing down on a fried omelet, leftover onigiri found in the fridge, and a bowl of steamed rice when his brother finally emerges from his den. Ran beelines to the coffee and drinks the first cup without pause before pouring a second. This one, he bothers to treat with milk and gomme syrup for taste. Ran follows Rindou’s example then, starting on his own breakfast, expertly carving up a grapefruit as the first caffeine blast hits his system. Rindou can see the moment sleep fully leaves his brother’s eyes.

“Well, good afternoon, Sleeping Beauty,” Rindou scoffs.

“I wouldn’t be so quick to mock. I did, after all, let you sleep in my bed last night. You’re welcome for that.”

“Oh, yeah. Thanks. I threw up on your floor by the way. Probably want to deep clean that,” Rindou returns.

Ran cranes his long neck heavenward as if searching for divine intervention. “Little brothers…the gift that never stops giving.”

“Anyway, I’m gonna head out. Just hand over my phone,” Rindou says.

“Can I trust you with this?” Ran asks seriously, unearthing the phone from the pocket of his silk pajama pants.

“Uh…yeah?”

“Convincing,” Ran grimaces, but he tosses the phone Rindou’s way anyway. “She didn’t call or text by the way.”

Rindou ignores this unasked for information in favor of scrolling his notifications: a few nonurgent business emails, a call from Mochi he should return, and an update on an MMA match he follows. When he flips to his calls log to check what time Mochi called, he sees a slew of outbound calls, 34 to be exact, all to your number. He slumps in his seat and groans.

“Don’t tell me you blacked out,” Ran sneers, missing nothing as he watches Rindou over his cup of coffee.

“Piss off.”

“I gave you so much advice last night, too. Some of my best work, and you went and forgot it. Well, don’t think I’m going to repeat everything for your benefit now. You’ll have to settle for the Cliff Notes version.”

“I don’t need advice,” Rindou snaps.

“Oh, don’t you? Why don’t I fill you in on what you forgot? I got home from work this morning around 7 AM, and what did I find? My baby brother sleeping on my front step. No idea how long you were there by the way. I figured, okay, he just needs to sleep it off. But, oh no, you spent the next two hours talking my ear off about your girl problems. Crying intermittently, I might add. Really moving stuff if you’re the type for it. I had to take your phone after the ninth time you tried calling her. It was getting pathetic.”

The timestamps on his outbound calls show the last attempt was logged at 7:45 AM true to Ran’s accounts. If anyone but Mikey blew up his phone that much, he would block them on principle. Considering the lack of reply, you probably did just that.

Rindou doesn’t remember any of it.

“The long and short of my advice, by the way, call her. Today. Tell her you’re so sorry and want to be with her, just her. No wait, tell her, you’re sorry, and that you just got scared because you’ve never felt this way about a woman before. Tell her you love her and that you want to be with her and only her. That no woman can compare! That she’s more beautiful than Lady Kiritsubo, sexier than Kyoko Fukada and Naomi combined, more bewitching than Lady Murasaki, that you would not stop at the murder of 130 men but would fell 10,000 if only to look upon the moon of her face. Are you writing this down? This is good stuff,” Ran says.

“I’m not saying any of that stuff,” Rindou groans.

“Fine, not sure why. That sweet girl of yours would just about cream herself if you compared her to all those literary figures, but whatever. For some reason, she likes you, so I’m sure whatever you say will move her,” Ran allows.

“I’m not going to say anything to her.”

The knife contacts the cutting board with a sharp knocking sound that rings out in the otherwise silent kitchen. Juices from the grapefruit drip off its serrated edge. The British Shorthair, whose name Rindou remembers is Tortoiseshell, leaps onto the counter and winds her bushy tail along Ran’s arms in an affectionate gesture, like she can sense Ran’s growing ire, neck going red and heat rising higher by the second.

“And why the hello not?”

“Because she told me not to call her,” Rindou says simply.

“Sure didn’t stop you yesterday,” Ran says, but Rindou waves that away with the excuse that he was drunk. Ran sights like his personally pained by Rindou’s stupidity. “When she told you not to contact her, she meant don’t waste my time. I promise you, she did not mean, don’t call me and give me everything I want and am asking for. Tell her you’re a one-woman man from here on out, and it should work out just fine.”

“But I’m not. I’ve never wanted to be a boyfriend or whatever. That’s not what this was, and she understands that,” Rindou says.

“So, you don’t want to be with her?”

“Of course, I do.”

“Then, you want to be with her but not as much as you want to be with other women? There’s something other women are giving you that she can’t?” Ran tries.

“Not necessarily.”

“Then, what? Because I’m getting mad like I’m the girl you’ve been stepping out on. You’re not making sense. She does all the freaky stuff you’re into. She’s the best lay of your life,” Ran says, brushing aside Rindou’s threatening glare. “These are your words, Rin. Not mine. You said so last night. You also said that she loves you and that you love her.”

This time, when his stomach flips, Rindou knows better than to blame it on his hangover. He almost accuses Ran of lying, but he can read Ran’s facial tics and mannerisms as clearly as directives in an instruction manual, all concise, clinical language and the steps in sequence. There is no lie hidden in Ran’s hands as they wave about, punctuating this or that point, only frustration at Rindou’s stubbornness in the tilt of Ran’s chin.

He remembers the track of your tears down your face. How they stubbornly clung to your jaw line, refusing that final plummet until new tears slid down and forced them away. Overcrowding. The memory is so clear in the way memories can be, meaning it is false and true at the same time. In his memory, there is only the facsimile of a public toilet, and the edges fade to black like they do on film. The counters of your face are so familiar to him, so easy to trace, but an aura of white, hot light shines around you, transforming you into an angel, the kind built for God’s bloodiest wars. The details of your hair and clothes are wrong, but not the tears. Those are clear enough that he can imagine wiping them away with his thumb here and now.

As Ran carries on, Rindou downs an entire bottle of water without coming up for air as if by blocking one sense, he might drown out whatever Ran says next. The words – about how Rindou pledged his love for you last night – reach him regardless.

Neither brother speaks for several minutes. Both busy themselves in their respective breakfasts and eye the lined marble of the tabletop like its trajectory of cracks map to the elixir of life. Rindou tries to deaden his mind, to ward off thoughts second and feelings first.

Eventually, Ran sighs and sits down at the counter opposite him. All that remains of the grapefruit is the sticky rind and guts clinging to the forgotten knife.

“Do you remember our time in family court before we went to juvie?” Ran asks. “I was so pissed they were locking us up. I didn’t wanna leave Miki behind or what we’d built in Roppongi, but I was so damn pleased when we walked into lockup that first day. You and I together. Felt like it was just another neighborhood, just another street war, and we were going to win it.”

Rindou smiles faintly at the memory. He remembers their first days with less fondness, but he also left nothing behind when they were sentenced away. All he claimed in the world was his brother and his own body, and they couldn’t take either away from him. It was hardly a punishment at all.

“I never told you, but Izana said something to me a couple months in. Something I never forgot…He asked me why I didn’t…why I didn’t tell them it was all me. Try to take the fall for everything and get you off,” Ran says.

“What are you talking about? They had us on everything. With witnesses. You couldn’t have gotten me off.”

“Probably not,” Ran admits dully. “But maybe…maybe I could have told them that you never wanted any of it. That I was kicking your ass at home and forcing you into the gang life. Maybe they would have believed it, been lenient.”

“No one would have believed that,” Rindou scoffs.

“Maybe. Probably not. But the point is…the point is I didn’t even try.” Ran lets the words sit between them for a long moment, eyes on his plate but mind turned inward to the sins of his past. “Because it had always been you and me. We didn’t need a gang so long as we were together. And that’s exactly how I wanted it. Us against the world. I’ve lost things. But I chose this, all of it, for better or worse. You? I watch you sleepwalking through life, and I can’t remember if you ever really chose anything, or I just dragged you along behind me. I wonder if you’re just on a bullet train, and it’s moving too fast for you to get off, and you’ve been on it so long, you figure you might as well ride it to the final destination, just speeding along, doing what you’ve always done.”

When Rindou tries to swallow, all the moisture in his mouth evaporates, and his throat stutters over a rough, empty path to his gullet. He struggles to even look at Ran. His entire being shrinks away from his brother only to find that sentiment waits for him wherever he retreats. Ran’s sincerity, the power in these hypnotic, never before spoken words, cows him into submission. He breaks free only through an extreme display of will.

“You’re telling me I should quit? Settle down with a wife and kids and become what? A salaryman?”

“Fuck no! No, you don’t up and quit. We’re in this for life,” Ran says, flicking his fingers in Rindou’s direction as if to signal that he finds his brother’s lack of intelligence exhausting. “I’m saying that you have a chance to make a choice and change things for yourself right now. I’m saying that opportunities like this don’t come around all that often, get rarer every year we get closer to the grave, and I’m saying that if you let this chance pass you by, I’m going to blame myself forever.”

“I’m never drinking again,” Rindou groans because it is easier than searching for a grain of sincerity to match Ran’s earnest sermon.

Thankfully, Ran depletes his stores of sincerity in the same moment, tossing his parting words over his shoulder, “I’m going back to bed. Your clothes are in the dryer. You puked on them, too, by the way. You really are the greatest house guest. Can’t imagine why we don’t do this more.”

Ran disappears back into the dark, tunnel-like halls for a few hours of much deserved sleep. Rindou stays at the table for another long half hour, not thinking. In fact, he uses every ounce of his brain’s considerable powers to avoid thinking altogether. By the time he leaves, he is an expert at meditation.

--

In the days that follow the explosion of your relationship – less plane crashed into the side of a mountain and more nuclear holocaust – Rindou descends into his own nuclear winter. The days are short as snow blankets the city. It weighs down telephone lines and cartwheels down slanted roofs. Pipes burst from the cold. Rindou foregoes his car and walks to the store, no gloves or hat, hands wind-chapped and roughened to hewn wood. Boots left to dry in the entryway, he steps into puddles of melted ice whether he comes or goes.

The roads clear quickly, and he returns to work. Then, he returns home.

Amidst the wreckage, Rindou wiles away the hours with thoughtless labor. His bottom line thrives. Not that anyone but Kokonoi notices enough to comment on his newfound dedication. All the inroads he made with his fellow executives in the last several months dry up, the waters of goodwill between them polluted by the radioactive dust typical of any nuclear fallout. He finds his colleagues too loud, too vulgar, too happy, too miserable, too much, too much, too much. And so, he avoids them entirely.

He goes through the motions, relying on pure muscle memory to wake his empty husk of a body in the mornings, to carry it to the gym, to navigate rush hour traffic, to feed it just enough to survive. Little else reaches him. He does not touch another human being.

The days repeat with so little variation that when Rindou lies down to sleep at night, he struggles to remember what he did that day. He tries to retrace his steps and form something coherent from the detritus, but the effort exhausts him, and he often falls asleep without making any progress.

Like he is bunkered down in a fallout shelter, he lives but does little else.

Weekends pose the most harrowing challenge. He sleeps as many hours as his body will allow, which for the first time since adolescence means half the day. When he blinks awake to a messy bedroom in the evenings, he turns to video games to pass the time. Music irritates him. The notes are discordant and false. Sometimes, he reads. Not your books, never those, kicked into a dusty corner under his bed, but books on dinosaurs, the deep sea, space, anything long ago or far away from here.

In one chapter on Newton’s second law of motion, he reads about the earliest understanding of “inertia,” how scientists billed it as the resistance to motion, assuming that stillness was the natural state of any object. He reads that the word “inertia” is derived from the Latin “inertem,” meaning, amongst other things, inactive, helpless, and weak.

He notices his foot has fallen asleep, that he has not sat up from his slump on the couch in hours.

Yet another weekend, he surrenders himself to the authority of the television. He skips past sitcoms with their long-married couples, dramas with their tender romances, sports with their screeching optimism, and finally settles on documentaries. Despite his sleep-saturated body, he drifts off to one, waking up to a scientist crooning to his captive jellyfish. The scientist explains that the jellyfish he raises are biologically immortal, that after reaching sexual maturity, they are able to regenerate to the polyp stage once again, return fresh and renewed. They could continue forever and ever this way. The documentarians fawn over the jellyfish as an elevated being, their cells key to humanity’s future immortality. He half-hallucinates, half-images the documentarians talking to him from the screen, promising him that there will be no end to this, that they will inject him with jellyfish venom and return him to this purgatory again and again and again.

He turns off the TV and dreams of drowning.

The temperature rises as March dawns, the sun beating heat down on the back of his neck for the first time in as long as he can remember. And that’s not all. He remembers the child throwing a tantrum outside the konbini as he walks to work, he remembers a joke Sanzu tells to no laughs before a meeting, he remembers the taste of a cold beer breaking on his tongue.

Spring draws near and winter thaws, and with it, Rindou lets himself feel for the first time in nearly three weeks. He misses you terribly.

The memory of you is a blistering wound, barely healed enough to touch, but he tries, remembering every time he made you laugh, every time you made him laugh in turn. He remembers soft flesh yielding in his hands when he gripped your waist and the equally soft flesh of your inner thigh. He remembers your bottomless appetite for new experiences, how you wanted to experience the world with him at your side. He remembers until the past and present merge into a stagnant stream, until the only thing he can’t remember is why he refused monogamy so insistently when it means an eternity without summers.

There is no autopilot, nothing natural at all about texting you after so long apart, but he chooses to anyway. His fingers move key by key, every word carefully considered and chosen, and then he chooses to push send. He moves.

It is as simple a message as he could manage: Can we talk?

That night, for the first time in a long time, Rindou does not dream.

--

Rindou is well-acquainted with the exterior of your apartment block. It is a relic from when architecture built out rather than up. Each apartment has its own front door and step. The building is an ugly white block of cement and plaster, but the neighborhood has planted symmetrical stripes of shrubbery between each apartment to liven it up, and you say that in the spring when the flowers bloom, the block is transformed in a vibrant display of every imaginable color: soft blue nemophilas and sickeningly yellow canola flowers, plump purple tulips and tender pink plum blossoms. Now, with the frost barely thawed, the flower beds lie dormant.

A minute passes after he knocks on your door, and he wonders if he dreamed your response last night when you invited him over to talk. At his feet, a cat meows. Rindou makes eye contact, and the cat flees into the bushes that separate your stoop from your neighbor’s. He watches for some sign of the cat, but the bushes don’t so much as rustle on your quiet street.

Maybe he dreamed the cat, too.

Just as Rindou decides to shoot you a text, the door opens, and then there is you. You, just as he remembered, all light and life and color. A lifetime’s worth of tension plummets off his shoulders at this measly, first sight of you.

Voice clear and lovely and unavoidable as the chiming of a temple bell calling him home, you usher him inside, past the entryway and up a narrow flight of stairs to the second floor. You chatter away about how you are in the middle of laundry, and would he mind if you do chores while he talks?

Under normal circumstances, he would closely observe your childhood home, looking for clues to the person you once were in the wear of the tatami and pictures framed on the wall, but the mere nape of your neck enthralls him and fixes his gaze. You shine like a beacon, the kind of light that doesn’t merely attract but blurs and blends the shadows until he can see nothing else.

Your clothes hang drying on the balcony, which is too cramped for two to stand comfortably, so he opts to hang back in the attached living room, while you fold your clothes into a basket. Rindou realizes that the task gives you the perfect excuse to avoid eye contact, which you have gracefully evaded since he arrived. It is a worrying sign perhaps, but it means he can study your face shamelessly as you work. There is a layer of grease atop your scalp and no makeup to cover the shadows that border your eyes. He looks no better, of course, but at least he’s been sleeping, and he frowns at these signs of neglect. Even so, he could get drunk on watching you unhindered like this.

The tension of all that is left unsaid writhes until you can’t help but break the silence, always the first to snap.

“So, what did you want to talk about?” you ask.

“I know you asked me to leave you alone, but I don’t want to. I miss you.”

“I miss you, too,” you confess quietly.

Something stronger than relief blooms where there has been so much pain, and Rindou spits out his response, words tumbling into one another without pause.

“Then what are we doing? Let me take you out!”

“Rindou, we can’t just go back to how things were,” you sigh. “I don’t mean that I won’t. I mean that I can’t. When things started between us, I thought I was just down for the ride, and I had no expectations of you or us, but then…everything just kind of snuck up on me, and when we were together, I felt so safe and cared for, like I never have before, and it was wonderful. Then, with a snap of your fingers, all of that just went away, and I was left with nothing, and it sucked. Trust me, I’ve thought about calling you a hundred times a day because it’s been so hard. But if I break now, I’m going to have to start moving on all over again from scratch, and I can’t do that. I need to just…get it over with.”

“Well, I don’t want to just get over it.”

The sun beats down on his brow through the glass, and a base sheen of sweat bursts from beneath his skin. The way you express yourself, honest and eloquent, as if inviting him to truly understand you, will never not amaze him, never not leave him scrambling for something half as true to share with you in turn. Words have never been his weapon of choice; he leads with his fists, his wits if pressed, the allure of fresh banknotes, but never his words, and now, they are the only thing that may save him. He had hours to prepare something to convince you to give him another chance, but the words sounded so stupid in his mind that he threw out every option as fast as he could imagine them. His memory has been shaky lately or he would recite the speech Ran wrote for him verbatim. His brother had been right. He should have written it down.

So, it is with no plan and with brains scrambled like a cracked egg that Rindou continues, “You’re not the only one who things snuck up on. You’re the best part of my day. Even now, as shitty as things stand between us, you’re still the best thing in my life. I never wanted to be a boyfriend. But I’ve had lots of time to learn that I want to lose you even less. A lot less. If you need me to give up seeing other women, to commit, or whatever else, then I’ll do it. If it means you can feel safe with me again, I’ll do it.”

“I’m not trying to trap you, or change you,” you sigh.

“Too late! I’m fucking trapped! And I don’t care. I want you way more than I want my freedom.”

Finally, you turn away from the laundry, back to the horizon, and look at him. You are guarded, no fake smiles to reassure or disarm. You are, however, listening, and Rindou lets himself hope that somehow, somehow, he has found the words powerful enough to undo the damage he wrought.

“That all sounds really nice,” you admit, “But you obviously don’t want to be my boyfriend, or we would have had this talk a while ago. It took you weeks to realize you want me.”

For such a smart woman, you could say the stupidest things, and Rindou is incensed enough at the very idea of not wanting you that he tells you as much. A spark of fire, something finally more impassioned than dull resignation sparks in your eye at the insult, but he plows forward before you can snark back.

“I knew I wanted you from the moment I first saw you. And I always miss you the second you leave my side. What it took me weeks to admit was…well shit, that I can’t live without you because I love you.”

A gust of wind weaves its way between the taller buildings that flank your apartment to blast past the balcony just as your fingers fumble removing a white tee-shirt from the clothesline. The shirt flies out on an updraft. As if dancing with the wind, it whirls in tight circles just out of reach of your outstretched hand, a brief white flag before the wind dies down and it plummets to the street.

You lean over the balcony, like you might leap to follow it, but finding no escape in that direction, you turn to face Rindou’s love confession head-on, just as he once faced yours. He had expected the words, “I-love-you” to hurt, to tear open his throat on their journey out and to ache like a rotting tooth. After all, people lost their minds for love. They died for love. And when love was gone, they cauterized the wound, all decayed flesh and mindless bumbling through the motions, like living zombies. Love hurt or some shit, right?

Yet, he doesn’t regret telling you now, even as you stand quietly without returning his feelings. A million possibilities for heartbreak manifest in front of him, but Rindou feels stronger than he has in weeks. There are so many secrets that still divide you, but this one fundamental truth is undeniable, unretractable. Never again will he be able to claim he’s never loved. This love will forever be a part of his history, and Rindou embraces the fixedness of the path that lies before him, one that is forever imprinted upon by your shared love.

“You’re making it nearly impossible to refuse you,” you sigh out.

“Good. You shouldn’t,” Rindou agrees.

The screen door squeaks as you close it behind you, stepping close enough that he can faintly sense your body heat and lavender scented detergent emanating from the laundry basket. You stand together at a precipice. Your mouth twists to the side in what he recognizes as fear.

“I’m scared,” you whisper. “If we do this, and I get hurt again…I can’t –”

“Do you remember our first date, when you told me all about your favorite story? The one with the girl whose brother kills her?” Rindou blurts out. He doesn’t know where he is going with this. Inspiration hovers three steps ahead of his brain.

“A Smiling Death’s Head?” you ask uncertainly.

“Yeah, you said you hated that one version of it because the woman dies for a man who won’t choose her in return. You like the one where the woman is brain and risks everything – her honor, her family’s honor, her life even – for love, and the man she loves is willing to do the same. I’m thinking, that’s us right now. I’m here, baby, and I’m choosing this even though you might hurt me now. I don’t care what shit there is down the road, I’m choosing you, and I want you to do the same. Be brave like the women in your books and take this leap with me, please.”

Like a sunflower to the sun, your whole body leans in his direction as you say, “That might be the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I’d tell you not to get used to it, but who knows? This is the first time I’ve ever been in love. Maybe I am a romantic. You’ll have to choose me to find out.”

Pure joy knocks you off balance and tumbling into his arms. In seconds, you are tangled together. Your thighs clamp tight around his hips and your chin tucks into the notch between his neck and shoulders. His nose buries into the crook of your exposed throat, breathing in the balmy scent of sweat and sun. Just as naturally, your arms wrap around his waist as he holds you aloft. There is no space between your bodies. Nothing has felt more right since he first drew breath upon entering the world.

He has made his choice, and now you have made yours.

Rindou carries you into the open kitchen, sitting you on a high countertop, where neither of you need loosen your grip on the other. In fact, as he no longer needs to support your weight with his hands, he is free to tighten the embrace, wrapping two big arms around your back to clutch you even tighter to the heat of him.

Together like this, you both breathe through what feels like two blissful eternities that make the time spent apart seem like the passing of a few errant seconds. Time stops when you are gone, and it races when you are near. Rindou doubts he’ll ever return to the days of idly passing the time again. Not so long as he has you.

It is one of the happiest moments of his life. Not the happiness of a victory, but the absolute relief of a stay of execution, a sparing of the hangman’s noose. You are so unbelievably warm and soft as you cling to him. Little noises escape your mouth and get lost against his chest. It takes him a moment to recognize those sounds are words: “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

The fabric of his shirt sags from the weight of your tears as you weep, and he hates to imagine how exhausting the last several weeks have been as you ran yourself into the ground to avoid your heartbreak. He promises to care for you even when you can’t, or won’t, care for yourself. And now is as good a time as any to get started.

“No more tears,” Rindou cajoles, loosening your embrace just enough to draw your head up and look into those pretty eyes.

“I know I’m being ridiculous,” you hiccup-laugh. “I’m just so happy.”

He pinches the fat of your cheeks between his fingers, squishing your face into an adorable pout that stops the tears in their tracks.

“Now that I’m back, you’re going to be a good girl and listen to me, right?” he coaches.

You attempt a nod around his grip on your face, an eager half bob at the command.

“Good. First things first, you’re going to tell me everything I’ve missed while we were apart. And, I mean everything, baby. What’s going on with school, your mom, your friends. I want to know how Naoto’s work event went, how things are at the library, what you’re reading. If you read the nutritional information off a cereal box, I want to know about it,” Rindou orders.

“Yes, sir,” you slur through his fingers, and somehow you manage to sound perky and enthused despite your pinched lips and bloated cheeks.

“And you’re going to start taking care of yourself now that I’m back. No more all-nighters or studying until you collapse. You get seven hours of sleep every night minimum. You eat three meals a day. And you take at least one hour every day to do something fun, I don’t care what.”

“But sir!” you protest.

“That’s an order. Blink twice if you understand me.”

As your wet lashes bat down twice, Rindou notices the dreamy film that descends over your eyes, that recognizable, sleepy slide towards subspace as you relax your brain and surrender entirely to his will. All it took was the sound of his voice to affect you. And that’s not all. When the fingers of his other hand, the one not manipulating your cute little face, shift slightly on your neck, not even a full caress, you suck in a powerful breath like the touch might shatter you to pieces.

He vows to never take this, the power he commands over you, for granted again. Because as ardently as you react to his slightest touch, he is just as devoted in the hunt for those same reactions. He drinks up your sighs and pleasures and delicious little nose scrunches like an alcoholic at an open bar.

The sun filtering into the room is dimmer now, lighting up the dust mites as they float past the window. Rindou massages the base of your neck with a firm hand. Like a kitten, you purr and cant into the touch. He could stay like this until nightfall, until forever. Based on the little shivers that wrack your spine, the pathetic whimpers you can’t suppress, you are less contented, calves winding around his hips in a suggestion he only pretends to ignore.

“I have to tell you something,” you murmur, lips trailing his neck until they reach his ear. “I have to tell you, I was bad while we were apart.”

Rindou hides his smile in the base of your neck, continuing to stroke you like a beloved pet, “Were you now? I find that hard to believe.”

“I was, Sir. I came three times without permission. Twice on my own and once at the club,” you report.

Technically, you had his permission at the club when you came on Lady’s fingers as he nodded along with the audience, but he doesn’t tell you that, too amused by the eager way you tattle on yourself in the hopes he’ll spank you clean through a dry orgasm, thighs flexing around his waist as you imagine it. And he might punish you yet, but not today. Not when the weight of you in his arms feels like returning home after an odyssey, and unlike Odysseus, Rindou would have forgiven you anything – any infidelity, any betrayal, any treason – in his relief to find peace here once again.

“Hmm, you have been bad,” Rindou plays along. “And what do you think I ought to do about that?”

“Whatever you think best, Sir,” you offer, trying and failing to perform meekness as your excitement grows.

Rindou untethers you from his body, making sure you are seated securely on the counter beside an overflowing drying rack before he slides down, down, down to the floor, dragging your sweatpants along with him. You loom over him like a mountain in your half-naked glory, built like you were hand-crafted by a divine power for his enjoyment, designed to be worshipped. He belongs on his knees.

He lifts a foot to his mouth, tongue teasing past the toes, where he knows you are most ticklish, and pressing steady kisses to the arch. Slowly, he laps higher, passing your ankles, laving the muscles of your calves, and dedicating special attention to the sensitive skin behind your knees. An unstoppable giggle breaks free at the tickle, but your eyes warn him this is no laughing matter. His descent is achingly slow. Every centimeter he rises on your left leg must be repeated on his right before he will go higher, drawing out the torture until your breath goes shallow. It is an unhurried kind of worship that relaxes as well as arouses. There is a voluptuous surrender in the way he lingers on your legs, ignoring where you most want him as if time presents no obstacle to his exploration. All the while, he maintains eye contact, violet eyes transfixing you in place.

At your inner thighs, Rindou can’t resist, and he sucks twin hickeys onto each side. It’s the silken softness of your skin there, where you are never exposed to the sun. It’s the way your cunt smells, so close to his face as he marks you. You haven’t shaved in a few days, but the fine hairs hardly detract from the pillowy flesh. His cock aches for you.

Your panties join your sweatpants on the floor. For a solid minute, Rindou can do nothing but stare at your pretty pussy, so familiar and so missed. His hot breath dances over the sensitive skin, and you squirm, begging for the return of his mouth.

He smothers your cunt and himself in the process with open mouth kisses. Wet trails of his spit glisten in the wake of his lips. He uses his fingers to pinch at your hood until your glossy, little clit peeks out for him. The kisses he lays there are purposeful, devotional.

“Rindou, sir, please,” you whimper.

“You want me to eat this pretty pussy the way my pretty girl likes it?” Rindou asks.

You nod eagerly, and Rindou makes a show of considering it. The kisses he just gifted you were merely playful, a pantomime of what you really needed. Even as he toyed with your clit, your hips bucked greedily against the anchor of his hands at your hips, begging for more pressure, more, more, more.

“I was going to reacquaint myself with this perfect body from your toes to your eyelids. If I get distracted here, who will play with the rest of your body? Who will play with your pretty tits? Do you still want me to lick this cunt?”

“Yes, sir,” you answer swiftly.

“Well, since you’re being so polite,” Rindou hums, rubbing a firm hand up your inner thigh until you arch. “I’ll do it, but only if you play with your tits just the way you know I would. You’ll have to be my hands, baby.”

It is an uncharacteristically kind decision, but Rindou can’t summon up the will to call you belittling names or deny you too badly. You may be a pathetic, needy cockslut, but he is the one who couldn’t survive three weeks without the hug of your cunt, so what does that make him? At least, for today, he is simply too drunk on your body to degrade you the way you deserve.

Even without his firm hand, you are still an obedient little thing – one of the things he loves most about you – so you hasten to show off, tugging your tee-shirt up over your breasts and grabbing handfuls of your own flesh. He loves the way your fingers leave marks from how hard you grope and squeeze them. Rindou slips a hand in his pants, so that he can thumb at the head of his cock, watching the way you touch yourself. The foot he previously licked plants right on his shoulder to keep you spread open for him. Then, he dives back into your pussy.

With his tongue, Rindou laps out the wetness that collects at your entrance and smears it up to the top of your mound. It is messy. You practically flood his mouth at first contact, and he relishes that familiar tang. He buries everything – from his tongue to his nose – between your folds, lapping and sucking until your thighs quiver. With your clit, he is merciless, all pressure and speed as it has left the defenses of your clitoral hood and now beckons to him, an engorged button for him to tweak and nudge and suction into the hot wetness of his mouth.

You express your approval of his efforts by overenthusiastically abusing your tits. When you pinch your nipples, you tug that extra amount until they’re sore. When you squeeze them, you grope your tits like a pervert, hard and merciless. When you caress the undersides, you follow up with a stinging slap to the center that alights your nerves and brings tears to your eyes. It is masterful, a work of pure artistry, for an audience of one. And what an appreciative audience! Rindou shucks off his jeans, so he can palm the head of his cock as he watches the student become the master. He taught you this, this brutality, this unrestrained use of your body, and he wonders whether you spanked your ass raw in his absence, pretending your little hand was larger, meatier, his.

The toes on his shoulder clench, and he knows you are going to cum. All of those signs particular to you and your pleasure are committed to his memory and on display now as he worries your clit with his tongue.

So, of course, Rindou pulls back from your cunt, breaking a strand of spit that connects him to your pussy with his hand.

It is adorable the way your hips arc, humping at air like that might give you the stimulation you need to fly over the edge. As soft as he feels towards you in the new dawn of your shared love, Rindou can’t help but laugh at the pathetic display. It is easy to bat your hand away when you move it towards your own pussy, funny how the pitiful moue of your lips trembles at being denied. You must be out of practice to think for a second he would let you rut yourself to orgasm without permission. An out of practice needy hole in need of discipline. He can’t even feel disappointment. It’s simply too pathetic. Too pathetic and too intoxicating.

Nothing in his long life of vice compares to the knowledge that your pleasure belongs to him. His to control, his to provide. Like a headrush, a heady sense of his own power and gratitude for it stuns him into stillness. Rindou has always liked this power, enjoyed the needy pleas of the women he fucked and the way they would surrender beneath his hands, hoping, praying, that he might let them cum. He would snicker and mock their desperation even as the blood rushed to his cock. But there is an opposite side to the coin as well, a kind of self-flagellation because even as he denies you, he is simultaneously denying himself. Because the only sight better than your miserable cries at an edge is the glorious sight of you coming undone, brain blitzed and tongue heavy and breasts heaving and stomach clenching and…

“I didn’t tell you to stop abusing those tits,” Rindou warns.

He simply watches and you spring back to action, drawing the meat of your breast as high as it will go to try to tongue at your own nipple. When you aren’t satisfied, you spit and use the slick to rub aching little circles over each nipple. Your neck arches back at the feeling. Rindou can see when a zap of pleasure rolls through your body in the way your throat swallows, in the way your untouched hole spasms around nothing. He jerks his cock rapidly, splitting his attention between your performance and that clenching hole.

Two minutes pass after your first edge before Rindou decides he can safely return to your clit without immediately sparking an orgasm. Rindou licks his fingers, messy and thorough, before guiding them to your entrance. There is a nudge of resistance as he sinks two fingers inside as it’s been weeks since he last used you here, and he imagines that same tight pressure massaging his shaft, suffocating him at the root.

Sunk inside to the second knuckle, Rindou maneuvers until he finds your front walls, and then he plunges his fingers repeatedly into that spot as you shake and moan. He doesn’t even need to touch your clit now as it all but vibrates at the internal stimulation. One hand plants on your belly to hold you in place as he picks up speed, fingering your tiny cunt expertly until your squeals are as loud as the wet gushing from between your thighs and the sound of blood pounding in Rindou’s head.

Rindou works a third finger inside you, so that you won’t shatter when his cock breaks you open later. Then, he kisses up and down your stomach to where your cunt is stretched open by his fingers and only just grazing your clit with his passing tongue. Your head lolls like a broken doll, waist twitching one way then the next. Your twitchy little hole tells him that you will cum soon, fluttering like a vice around his fingers. He leaves it to the last possible second, so that he almost worries his mistimed it before abandoning your pussy again.

This time, you don’t try to alleviate the ache but bite down on your own fist in a childish cry of grievance at what is taken from you. He can literally see your hole clench around nothing, an enticing invitation for his neglected cock. An invitation he has ignored long enough.

Rindou stands, lifting you off the counter and depositing you knees-first on the cold tile. His cock hovers at face level, hard, demanding, weeping from missing you too long.

He smacks the meat of your cheek with his cock. A few heavy blows that bounce the head off your lip, leaving it stained with his essence. Whenever Rindou jerks off, he is vicious with his prick. His hand would blur from how fast he jerks it, but in contrast, you are always so delicate to start, all kitten licks and starry eyes at his cock like it is a rare book or something equally valuable to you. It is not so different from the worshipful way he learned your body. He craves that show of devotion from you, its own kind of commitment ceremony more powerful than swearing oneself in front of a priest or signing some stupid papers. He wants to see you pledge yourself to him in the basest ways imaginable.

“No hands. No tongue. No mouth,” Rindou says, voice too tight for the command to land as one, but you listen anyway. You are perfect like that.

The skin of your cheek is soft as you rub yourself against him like a cat. You twist under his cock, so that it rests heavy across your pretty features. A fan whirs overhead, but Rindou can clearly hear the deep breath you take through your nose as you soak in the smell of him. Laid out like this, his cock is nearly as long as your face.

Despite the limitations he imposed, you find a way to shift his cock, so it stands to attention between his stomach and your face, which you then rub up and down in time to his heartbeat. You have eyes only for his cock, so close to your nose that it crosses your eyes. The understimulation combined with your debauched face is the worst kind of torment. He has known hell in broken ribs, in a child’s empty belly, in the devastation of the drug trade he peddles. He has known hell. But he has never known a hell that lived so close to heaven as this.

“Go ahead and add your hands and tongue. Still no mouth,” Rindou urges.

Your hand is gentle when it grips him at the base and strokes. His skin stretches forward as you skim up, up, up the length of him. He jumps when slim fingers ghost over the head.

Both hands begin to work in tandem, stroking in opposite directions, different rhythms, so that every centimeter of him is caressed. Like you want to tempt him to sink into your mouth, you open wide and let his tip sit on your tongue. The pink little muscle writhes against the underside where he is most sensitive. Too often when he uses your mouth, he chokes you on the length of him until you flounder, wild-eyed and proud in your accomplishment. This, letting you take the lead and showcase all your skill and study of him, may become a guilty a pleasure for him though. As you trace your tongue up the vein lining his shaft, he realizes you know his body every bit as well as he knows yours.

“Please, can I suck it, sir? I want to make you feel good,” you plead.

“You’re already making me feel good. And besides, you look too pretty like this,” Rindou murmurs, gliding a hand down your spit-stained cheek.

“Like this, sir?”

There is nothing submissive, sweet, or innocent in the way you lick a wet streak from base to tip. So terribly slowly that by the time you kiss the plump head of him, his eyes have rolled back in bliss.

Then, like a secret, you whisper into his cockhead,” I love you, sir.”

By you, he is undone.

Most likely, Rindou thinks, he lowered you gently to the ground then, but this is pure speculation as one moment you are on your knees, and the next you are on your back, legs wound his waist, and his cock bullying its way into your pussy.

It is like coming home when your hips meet with a loud smack, as close as two people can be, cock pressed up and into your stomach. He is gentler when he pulls out, making sure your walls can accommodate him. Your heels dig painfully into his ass at the slow slide. They tighten as if to keep him there when he sinks back in deep.

The only way he could possibly fuck you after everything you shared today is deep. Not too hard or fast, but penetrating, inescapable thrusts that make you wail when he bottoms out.

A cunt is a cunt, he always thought. There is only so much variation in depth, in tightness, in slickness, in heat from one woman to the next. And that’s true of yours, too, except when he’s inside you, he’s not only feeling your walls massage his cock, he’s also smelling the natural perfume that emanates from your neck and thighs. He’s tasting the sweat off your delicious breasts. He’s soaking up the cries and moans that you offer him like a votive.  Yes, you are deliciously obedient and hot, but you are also just you, and that is manifold times more addictive than the drugs he sells for a living.

His balls draw up, and Rindou is shocked to realize he could cum already. He empties his mind, counting his breaths until the urge to fill you ebbs away to more manageable levels. Still his balls ache fiercely.

You fare little better as each thrust breaks you open. His hips grind into yours, pressing him tight to where you folds spread open, where your clit is engorged and primed. Your hands rub through layers of sweat on his back to press him even closer. Nose-to-nose, so you trade breaths and groans through open mouths.

“Please, can I cum, sir?” you ask.

“You wanna cum?” Rindou grits out.

You grasp his wrist, the one not supporting his bodyweight off the floor, and guide his hand to your bared throat. Instinctively, his fingers curl around your pretty neck, not pressing, just there, like a favorite necklace.

“Make me cum,” you say.

Your hand folds over his own and flexes until he begins to squeeze, cutting off your air supply. A little smile of pure contentment curls your lips as you ease into the sensation of being choked. Without air, your brain panics, the cock digging its way to your center begins to feel less welcome, less safe, more startling and therefore unignorable. And then, your brain slackens, and his grinding cock becomes the center of your universe. Just feeling remains and nothing else.

It is a wonder you still trust him enough to let him do this.

A wonder. That’s what you are.

“Cum for me, baby,” Rindou prays, lips to your ear. “Cum as hard as you can.”

His hand loosens to allow a windfall of air to flood your lungs and short circuit your brain. The sudden relief compounds the way he speeds up his thrusts, so that your cunt is filled just the way he knows you need it.

You start to cum sometimes on the second stroke. The little bit of slack he had to maneuver inside you disappears. It is a vice that wraps around his cock. Your pussy pulses haphazardly, like a clenching fist, and he floods your womb with cum.

Lips meet in a messy kiss. Off-center and desperate. But neither of you have the brain power for artistry. His cock is too busy with the aftershocks, managing seven hot spurts into the haven of your cunt after the initial torrent. And you are practically crying into his mouth; a short but obliterating orgasm that wracked you to your core and left you devastated in the aftermath.

This must be what people call ‘making love.’

--

Sometime in the aftermath, Rindou remembers that you share the apartment with your mother, and that he cannot make a bed here on the kitchen floor with a soft cock buried in her daughter’s cunt. First, impressions count after all.

On autopilot, he takes you to the shower, where you both clean up, bodies limp against one another. At no point do you stop holding hands. Even when you pee after. You remain tethered to each other every step of the way.

Your mind wakes up just enough to direct him to your bedroom afterward. The bed is only a twin, but he prefers it, the way it forces you both to stay wrapped up entirely in each other’s arms. You practically lay across his thigh as you both fall into a deep sleep.

An hour or two after judging by the angle of the sun seeping through your window, Rindou wakes up. Vaguely, he notices for the first time his surroundings. The duvet on your bed is threadbare and patchy, but the sheets are surprisingly soft. The room is mostly neat with dirty clothes tucked away in a hamper and clean clothes folded away, though the desk in the corner is piled haphazardly with books and looseleaf notes. A pen must have rolled off your desk earlier because the wheel of your desk chair is lodged atop it. The walls are painted a delicate eggshell yellow, and there are no embarrassing childhood posters there but rather tacked-up photos of you and your friends, you and your mom, you and him.

Rindou finds it hard to swallow when he sees the photos, looks away.

“Morning,” you rumble sleepily into his skin.

He kisses you soundly before correcting you that it is sometime in the early evening. It doesn’t matter either way. Time has abdicated its power. Whether it’s six in the evening or six in the morning, he will stay in this cramped bed, holding you. Short of the police breaking down the door or a zombie apocalypse, nothing could compel him to stop.

“I didn’t dream it,” you murmur to yourself.

“No,” Rindou confirms simply. He has never been a man of many words and now that the time for speeches has passed, he finds himself exhausted of them. He prefers to listen anyway, missed your songbird voice in his ear.

“And you’re not going to regret it?” you say.

Rindou shakes his head.

“I can introduce you as my boyfriend now?” you question.

“Mmmhmm,” Rindou hums, placing a delicate kiss to the crest of your ear.

Your fingers curl tightly around his hand, and you say urgently, “Please don’t cheat on me. I think it’ll kill me.”

“Shh, stop worrying. I won’t even look at another woman again, okay?” Rindou promises.

This little bout of insecurity passes, unable to survive the absolute security of his deep-voiced assurances. Then, you proceed to tell him all about your time apart. Rindou hardly speaks a word, soaking up the way you effortlessly create a full-bodied narrative of details and characters and feelings. You talk mostly about schoolwork and the library, your friends weaving in and out of the periphery of your stories. Occasionally, he asks a question, sparking new stories that outrun the clock until the sky is dark outside and your voice scratchy from overuse.

It takes Rindou by surprise when you say seemingly out of the blue, “Earlier, when you said you would never even look at a woman again…I don’t think you have to take it that far. I mean, unless you want to, but I’m not asking you to.”

“Thanks, that would have made leaving the house kind of hard,” Rindou laughs lowly. “But seriously, I won’t touch anyone but you. You have my word.”

You squirm out from the cocoon of his arms, and he unconsciously chases your body heat. Once you are sitting up, sheets tumbling over your peaked nipples, you say, “I don’t mind if you do, a little.”

Now it is Rindou’s turn to sit up.

“You don’t mind if I touch other women a little?”

“Oh, this is so embarrassing,” you groan at the disbelief in his voice. “I just mean, when we first met and you flogged that woman…I thought that was so hot, watching you. And I could see us wanting to go to the club again sometime, as a couple, and it would be okay with me at least, if you wanted to umm, do a scene with someone else. I think I might even like it. Or, umm, so long as it’s not sex, I think it would be fine even if I’m not there so long as you tell me all about it,” you say.

“What does sex mean to you?”

You think about it for a moment. “Anything that gets your dick wet.”

A beat later Rindou starts to laugh. He laughs until his stomach hurts, while you beat your fists into his shoulder and insist it’s not funny. But it is funny! It is funny that he wasted so many weeks thanks to his stubborn pride when you weren’t even demanding his forever faithfulness, leaving the door wide open to all kinds of sins and debauchery so long as he what? Maintained open communication?

All you ask is that he gives up sticking his dick in other women and in exchange he gets…everything. He gets everything.

When Rindou finally catches his breath, he eyes you like the marvel you are and says, “I really don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

“Funny, I feel the same way,” you smile. “So, I don’t want you getting your dick wet with anyone else, and I want to know what you do with other people. I may change my mind down the road, but I actually thought about it a lot after everything that happened, and I think that’s my boundary. So, until I do change my mind, that’s the rule. What about you? What boundaries do you have for me?”

Rindou has put little thought into it, assuming a vanilla-style definition of monogamy would be your future together, but half the answer comes instantly, “I control your orgasms. No cumming without my permission.”

“I like that,” you agree.

“And no dating anyone else. Watching you with Lady was fucking hot, and I wouldn’t mind sharing you with other doms if you are interested down the line, but no cumming and no going out with them.”

“Oh, no dating for you either! No dating and no falling in love. And you can’t do scenes with the same woman over and over without me. I don’t want you developing feelings for anyone. I didn’t think of that,” you say.

Rindou nods. “It sounds like we’ll both have to work out the details as they come along. But I’m open to changing the rules as we go because all that really matters is that we’re together, and you’re happy.”

“You’re going to make me happy?” you tease.

You smile beatifically, an angel on earth. A sun to his sunflower, a planet to his moon sucking him into your orbit. Rindou never believed he could make anyone happy, but he knows now that he is going to try until there’s no fight left in him.

“I’m going to make you very happy,” he vows.

It is a rebirth, and it is a start. And you both think in that moment that you hope there is no end to the bright future that lies in front of you.

This is love.

A/N: editing this was a saga, so sorry if i missed anything!

Easing in her slender forearm for a pillow - Matsuo Bashō

[honey-andmilktea]

✎ Welcome to Night Vale: Glow Cloud

🤎𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Scientist!Bang Chan x GN!RadioShowHost!Reader | 🌙𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: Fluff, Crack Fic, 1st Person | 🖊️𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2,789 Words | ✏️𝐀𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬: Most of the dialogue is from the Night Vale podcast and transcriptions! I recommend checking out the podcast it’s so cool and funny! There's not a lot of Chan in this one but other groups and other group members are mentioned! [Lee Felix, Lee Minho, Choi San, Lee Minhyuk (Monsta X)] | ❌𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Mentions of dead animals, more oddities, slightly offensive humor (?)

🍁𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: A mysterious cloud looms over Night Vale plus the change of the Boy Scouts hierarchy, community events, and a PTA bake sale!

“June, July, August. Every day, we hear their laughter. I think of the painting by Van Gogh, the man in the chair. Everything wrong, and nowhere to go. His hands over his eyes.” - Mary Oliver, ‘August’

The desert seems vast, even endless, and yet scientists tell us that somewhere, even now, there is snow. Welcome to Night Vale.

ೃ⁀➷ 🦇🕰️☀️[Monday, 8 am]

I get everything ready for the morning’s broadcast. I sit with my regular cup of coffee in hand as I move my mic close to me and start the morning’s announcements. “The Night Vale Tourism Boards ‘Visitable Night Vale’ campaign has kicked off with posters encouraging folks to take their family on a scenery filled jaunt through the trails of Radon Canyon. Their slogan: ‘The view is literally breathtaking.' Posters will be placed at police stations and frozen yogurt shops in nearby towns, along with promotional giveaways of plastic sheeting and rebreathers.”

I clear my throat as I continue on to the news of the morning. “And now, the news. Have any of our listeners seen the glowing cloud that has been moving in from the west? Well, Lee Felix, you know, the farmer? He saw it over the Western Ridge this morning, said he would have thought it was the setting sun if it wasn’t for the time of day. Apparently, the cloud glows in a variety of colors, perhaps changing from observer to observer, although all report a low whistling when it draws near. One death has already been attributed to the glow cloud.” I raise my brows at that last part feeling it was a little extreme but also made some sense in a crazy predetermined way. 

“But listen, it’s probably nothing.” I turn away from the mic and snort. It most possibly is something, but the listeners don’t need to start freaking out now. “If we had to shut down the town for every mysterious event that at least one death could be attributed to, we’d never have time to do anything, right? That’s what the Sheriff’s Secret Police are saying, and I agree, although I would not go as far as to endorse their suggestion to ‘run directly at the cloud, shrieking and waving your arms, just to see what it does.’” I shake my head but smile with a tiny sigh. I was right though, our community was full of oddities, if we shut down every time something happened, we would basically not exist. I roll my eyes as I read what comes after in my notes.

“The Apache Tracker, and I remind you that this is that white guy who wears the huge and cartoonishly inaccurate Indian headdress,  has announced that he has found some disturbing evidence concerning the recent incident at the Night Vale Post Office, which has been sealed by the City Council since the great screaming that was heard from it a few weeks ago. He said that using ancient Indian magics, he slipped through Council security into the Post Office and observed that all the letters and packages had been thrown about as in a whirlwind, that there was the heavy stench of scorched flesh, and that words written in blood on the wall said, ‘More to come…and soon.’” I scoff lightly as I shake my head and continue to talk. “Can you believe this guy said he used ‘Indian Magicks’? What an asshole.”

ೃ⁀➷ 🦇🕰️🌑 [Monday, 2 pm]

I purse my lips as I go to sit, having noticed something on my little trip down the hall. “Here’s something odd: There is a cat hovering in the bathroom at the radio station here. Seems perfectly happy and healthy,  but it’s floating about four feet off the ground next to the sink. Doesn’t seem to be able to move from its current hover spot.” My smile turns into a little pout at that fact. It must be so lonely being all stuck there. “If you pet her, she purrs, and she’ll rub on your body like a normal cat if you get close enough. Fortunately, because she’s right by the sink, it was pretty easy to leave some water and food where he could get it, and it’s nice to have a station pet.” I smile and coo to myself at the fact that we now have a little pet to call our own in the station. “Wish it weren’t trapped in a hovering prison in the bathroom, but listen, no pet is perfect. It becomes perfect when you learn to accept it for what it is.” I clear my throat and continue with our next segment for the afternoon. “And now, a message from our sponsors: I took a walk on the cool sand dunes, brittle grass overgrown, and above me, in the night sky, above me, I saw. The bitter taste of unripe peaches and a smell I could not place, nor could I escape. I remembered other times that I could not escape. I remembered other smells. The moon slunk like a wounded animal. The world spun like it had lost control. Concentrate only on breathing and let go of ideas you had about nutrition and alarm clocks. I took a walk on the cool sand dunes, brittle grass overgrown, and above me, in the night sky, above me, I saw.” I hum and nod as I read the paper, flipping it over to continue.

“This message was brought to you by Coca-Cola.”

ೃ⁀➷ 🦇🕰️🌑 [Monday, 4:30 pm]

“The City Council, in cooperation with government agents from a vague, yet menacing, agency, is asking all citizens to stop by the Night Vale Elementary School gymnasium tonight at 7 for a brief questionnaire about mysterious sights that definitely no one saw and strange thoughts that in no way occurred to anyone, because all of us are normal, and to be otherwise would make us outcasts from our own community.  Remember: If you see something, say nothing, and drink to forget.” I move my finger from the button, reading over the rest of my notes a small pensive look on my face before I continue. 

“The Boy Scouts of Night Vale have announced some slight changes to their hierarchy, which will now be the following: Cub Scout, Boy Scout, Blood Pact Scout, Weird Scout, Dreadnought Scout, Dark Scout, Fear Scout, and, finally, Eternal Scout.” I used my fingers to count off everything, a small smile spreading on my lips as I continued. “As always, sign-up is automatic and random, so please keep an eye out for the scarlet envelope that will let you know your son has been chosen for the process.”

ೃ⁀➷ 🦇🕰️☀️[Tuesday, 7 am]

I started my day with some interesting news. Well more like everyday news, normal in Night Vale but news is always interesting, isn’t it? I sat myself down with a bagel in my mouth. I took a bite and started the broadcast. “This is probably nothing, listeners, but Lee Felix, you know, the farmer? He reports that the Glow Cloud is directly over old town Night Vale, and appears to be raining small creatures upon the earth.” I nod along to what I read, typical for our lovely little town. Taking another bite of my bagel I continue. “Armadillos, lizards, a few crows. That kind of thing. Fortunately, the animals appear to be dead already, so the Night Vale Animal Control department has said that it should be a snap to clean those up.” I bring my mic with me as I move to make myself a coffee. I’m quite happy that I decided to set up a coffee maker in my little office. “They just have to be tossed on to the Eternal Animal Pyre in Mission Grove Park, so if that’s the worst the Glow Cloud has for us, I’d say go ahead and do your daily errands, just bring along a good, strong umbrella, capable of handling falling animals of up to, let’s say, 10 pounds.” I smiled as my coffee finished walking back to sit down passing by an umbrella I had perched against one of the walls of the office. I sit and take a sip of my coffee with a satisfied hum. “More on the Glow Cloud as it continues to crawl across our sky. And hey, here’s a tip: Take your kid out and use the cloud’s constantly mutating hue to teach them the names of colors! It’s fun, and teaches them the real life applications of learning.”

ೃ⁀➷ 🦇🕰️🌑[Tuesday, 1 pm]

I quickly run to my mic half throwing off my jacket as I get back from picking up lunch. There was a breaking news alert and I had to report on it right away. “Alert! The Sheriff’s Secret Police are searching for a fugitive named Lee Minho, who escaped custody last night following a 9 pm arrest. Mr. Lee is described as a black cat hybrid, about 5’8” in height, with yellow cat eyes, and about 145 pounds. He is suspected of insurance fraud.” I settled in my chair, catching my breath before continuing the rest of the alert. “Mr. Lee was pulled over for speeding last night, and the Secret Police became suspicious when he allegedly gave the officers a fake driver license for a 5’10” man named Lee Minhyuk. After discerning that Lee Minhyuk was actually a black cat hybrid from somewhere other than our little world, the Secret Police searched Mr. Lee’s vehicle.” As I talk I open up the container my lunch was in taking a bite of it since I couldn’t handle being hungry any longer. 

“Representatives from local Civil Rights organizations have protested that officers had no legal grounds to search the vehicle, but they ceded the point when reminded by Secret Police officials that our backwards court system will uphold any old authoritarian rule made up on the fly by unsupervised gun-carrying thugs of a shadow government.” Rolling my eyes a little at that but nodding as that is true continuing to enjoy my lunch as I wrap up the alert for the day. “The Secret Police say Mr. Lee escaped custody by scratching at one of the Secret Police officials. He was last seen jumping and hissing along the Red Mesa. Secret Police are asking for tips leading to the arrest of Lee Mimho. They remind you that, if seen, he should not be approached, as he is an uncontrolled cat hybrid. Contact the Sheriff’s Secret Police if you have any information. Ask for Officer Changbin. Helpful tipsters will earn one stamp on their Alert Citizen Card. Collect 5 stamps and you get Stop Sign Immunity for one year!” 

I sit back and decide to finish my lunch before continuing the broadcasting of the rest of the events of the day.

ೃ⁀➷ 🦇🕰️🌑[Tuesday, 1:30 pm]

I clean up my station humming happily to myself satisfied with the meal I just had. I sat in front of my mic before pulling out the rest of my papers. “And now, a look at the community calendar.” I clear my throat and start to read the next couple events for the week and next week. “Saturday, the public library will be unknowable. Citizens will forget the existence of the library from 6 am Saturday morning until 11pm that night. The library will be under a sort of…renovation. It is not important what kind of renovation.” I make a mental note of that which in honesty I might end up forgetting either way-. I shake my head and continue to read.

“Sunday is Dot Day. Remember: Red Dots on what you love. Blue Dots on what you don’t. Mixing those up can cause permanent consequences.” I shiver at the thought, knowing those consequences are real and to always remember the difference between Red and Blue dots on Dot Day.

“Monday, Choi San is offering bluegrass lessons in the back of Louie’s Music Shoppe. Of course, the Shoppe burned down years ago, and San skipped town immediately after with his insurance money, but he sent word that you should bring your instrument to the crumbled, ashy shell of where his shop once was, and pretend that he is there in the darkness, teaching you. The price is $50 per lesson, payable in advance.” I scrunch my eyebrows at this, shaking my head in disbelief but shrugging. Just another person of good old Night Vale.

“Tuesday afternoon, join the Night Vale PTA for a bake sale to support Citizens of a Blood Space War. Proceeds will go to support neutron bomb development and deployment to our outer solar system allies. Wednesday has been canceled due to a scheduling error. And on Thursday, there is a free concert.” I blink as I look over the paper and tilt my head. “That’s all it says here.” 

ೃ⁀➷ 🦇🕰️🌑[Tuesday, 2:00 pm]

“New call in from Lee Felix, you know, the farmer?” I’m leaning back on my chair absentmindedly throwing a ball up in the air. There is so much that can keep me entertained. “Seems the Glow Cloud has doubled in size, enveloping all of Night Vale in its weird light and humming song. Little League administration has announced that they will be going ahead with the game, although there will be an awning built over the field due to the increase in size of the animal corpses being dropped.” I pulled out a paper squinting at it before perking up. “I’ve had multiple reports that a lion, like the kind you would see on the sun-baked plains of Africa, or a pee stained enclosure at a local zoo, fell on top of the White Sand Ice Cream Shoppe. The Shoppe is offering a free dipped cone to anyone who can figure out how to get the thing off.” I hum as I try to figure out a way to fit in a visit to the Shoppe. Who knows I could win myself a free dipped cone.~

“The Sheriff’s Secret Police have apparently taken to shouting questions at the Glow Cloud, trying to ascertain what exactly it wants. So far the Glow Cloud has not answered. The Glow Cloud does not need to converse with us. It does not feel as we tiny humans feel.” It felt like I was in a trance as I kept speaking. My mouth is just moving and no thoughts in mind. “It has no need for thoughts or feelings or love. The Glow Cloud simply is. All hail the mighty Glow Cloud. All hail. And now, slaves of the Cloud, the weather.” 

ೃ⁀➷ 🦇🕰️🌑[Tuesday, 7 pm]

“Sorry, listeners. Not sure what happened in that earlier section of the broadcast. As in, I actually don’t remember what happened.” I blink a little rubbing my forehead as I try to remember. “Tried to play back the tapes but they all are blank and smell faintly of vanilla.” I take some of the tapes and give them another sniff before my eyebrows scrunch up again. They really do smell like vanilla. Kind of pleasant actually. “The Glow Cloud, meanwhile, has moved on. It is now just a glowing spot in the distance, humming easy to destinations unknown. We may never fully understand, or understand at all, what it was and why it dumped a lot of dead animals on our community. But, and I’m going to get a little personal here, that’s the essence of life, isn’t it?” I hum in thought to myself as I think over my words going off script now.

“Sometimes you go through things that seem huge at the time, like a mysterious Glowing Cloud devouring your entire community. While they are happening, they feel like the only thing that matters, and you can hardly imagine that there’s a world out there that might have anything else going on. And then the Glow Cloud moves on, and you move on, and the event is behind you. And you may find, as time passes, that you remember it less and less. Or absolutely not at all, in my case. And you are left with nothing but a powerful wonder at the fleeting nature of even the most important moment in life, and the faint but pretty smell of vanilla.” I smile to myself as I pull out a sticky note ready to end the broadcast for the night.

“Finally dear listeners, here is a list of things:

Emotions you don’t understand upon viewing a sunset.

Lost pets, found.

Lost pets, unfound.

A secret lost pet city on the moon. 

Trees that see.

Restaurants that hear.

A void that thinks.

A face, half-seen, just before falling asleep.

Trembling hands reaching for desperately needed items.

Sandwiches.

Silence when there should be noise.

Noise when there should be silence.

Nothing, when you want something.

Something, when you thought there was nothing.

Clear plastic binder sheets.

Scented dryer sheets.

Rain coming down in sheets.

Night.

Rest.

Sleep.

End.

Goodnight, listeners. Goodnight.” I end the broadcast with a smile. I move to the couch in the room and decide to do a little gazing out into the night sky. See what else our little strange town can offer me.

✎ @honey-andmilktea - 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝, 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭, 𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭, 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐞, 𝐞𝐭𝐜. [2024-2025]

✎ Thank you for reading! Since you've made it this far please consider reblogging, commenting or getting a coffee at the Coffee Corner! [Ko-fi]

✎ Taglist: @armysantiny, @faywithlove, @moonprismo, @iridescentxstars, @monsterhigh-cb, @mo0nbeams

[ask-cinnavanillamelody]

Sanori how do you feel being a freeman? Do you feel any frustrations for your last punishments now that you are allowed to be who you are?

Sanori: Part of Discord's deal for my freedom is mandatory therapy and rehab for my "Abuse of Alcohol", part of that has been me letting go of my biases against ponies. I still don't like every pony, but i'm learning to coexist. I don't have any grudges, no. Except for that snooty and upity Unicorn lady at the head of the kid's PTA. She's a total-

*he remembers children are present*

Sanori:....horrible woman. I think you know what word i'd like to say. 🏵️

[blooming-violets]

My sister in Christ, first off, hi. Second off, amazing writing like *chefs kisses* all around.

I don't know if you're taking requests or not, so sorry if this is out of place. I would love you to smithereens if you did a part three for the Peter Parker car accident fic.

Maybe his girlfriend could come out of the coma but like need lots of help recovering mentally and physically? Idk, just an idea.

Xoxo 🕺💃🏽🕺💃🏽

The original car accident fic can be found [here] AND WAS ONLY SUPPOSED TO BE A ONE SHOT but then turned into a part two [here] aaaaannnd now a part three.

It's pretty short but she's awake and alive and here to stay...and spilling all Peter's secrets but he ain't even mad about it because he's just happy she's alive.

She had been awake for exactly one week…if he could call it “awake”. 

Coming out of a coma wasn’t anything like the way movies or shows portrayed it. May, and a few other nurses, tried to warn him as such but Peter was never very good at listening. She didn’t blink her eyes open and reach for his hand with a slightly confused smile. She didn’t ask how long it had been or what had happened to put her in the hospital. She didn’t seem relieved to be alive or happy to see him or even knew who he was. It was like she had no concept of being in the hospital at all. Her big eyes gave off vacant stares, almost as if she was sleeping with them open. When she spoke, her voice would be small and scratchy, and nothing she said made much sense. Sometimes she would fall asleep mid sentence. The doctor claimed that this was all normal. He heard the term “PTA” thrown around a lot. Or post-traumatic amnesia. It was apparently something that happens after a traumatic brain injury and is common among people waking from comas. He only half heard what the doctor’s said when they spoke to him. His focus was usually trained on his girlfriend. 

Even though she looked rough, he liked seeing her without the tubes blocking half her face. Her eyes might be unfocused and her words might sound like she’s speaking a forgein language at times but she was conscious. Being conscious meant she could improve. 

And she did. Day by day. Little by little. 

Her memory was nearly nonexistent. She kept getting her dreams confused with reality. She would wake up and be absolutely certain that she had spent the evening dining on a cruise ship in the Alaskan waters. She would excitedly tell him how her boyfriend had managed to win the cruise tickets after competing in a pie eating contest and dominating the other competitors. Then she would pause, blink a few times while staring at his face, and laugh about how he looked just like her boyfriend. Peter would smile and tell her that he was glad she enjoyed her cruise ship dinner. And he was glad. If she got her dreams confused with reality, at least she was having good dreams, and he was present in them…even if she couldn’t make the connection between her dream boyfriend and himself being the same person. 

A week after she woke up, her memory was still not right, but it was slowly getting better. Yesterday she had successfully remembered Peter’s face as being someone she knew. It was better than nothing. He pushed the elevator button to her level. Now that she was awake and stable, he felt less guilty running home to shower every few days. When the doors opened to the neuro recovery ward, he stepped out and smiled at the nurses behind their station. 

“Hey there, Spider-Man!” One of them looked up with a sly grin. “Save any people last night?”

Peter’s smile faltered and his face immediately flushed as the panic rose, “...What?”

Alarm bells rang in his head. His heart pounded in his chest. How did they know? Did that paramedic say something? He should have never told her his name or taken off his mask in front of her. He thought he could trust her. If his secret got out- 

A chorus of laughter followed his panicked spiral. 

“Your girlfriend has been telling anyone who will listen that she’s dating the infamous Spider-Man. She claims that he once brought her on a rooftop date overlooking Rockefeller Center during the Christmas tree lighting. We never knew you were so romantic, Spidey.” The nurses giggled, clearly assuming that her words were nothing more than another confused, dream infused reality instead of the actual truth. 

Peter forced a smile and took a shaky breath, “Ha, ya got me! It’s me, you’re friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, just swingin’ in to check on my girl.” 

“Aww, that’s sweet. How lucky she is to have a real life superhero looking out for her,” she winked at Peter to indicate she was only teasing. “She’s doing well today! Go see if she can remember your face this morning. Don’t want her actually falling in love with Spider-Man instead of you.”

He let their jests fall into the background as he swiftly walked to her room. His heart was pounding in his chest. Not because he was angry she was out here spilling his secrets but because she actually remembered something. Last December he surprised her by setting up a rooftop picnic as they watched the giant tree light up. That was no dream she was recalling. That was a memory. 

Peter burst into her hospital room to find May sitting by her bedside and speaking softly to her. He beamed at the two of them, jogging over to his girlfriend and planting a big, happy kiss on her cheek. 

She made a face of disgust and turned to May, saying sarcastically, “Who does this nurse think he is? Personal space much? They’re gettin’ real friendly here.” 

May chuckled under her breath, “Nurses these days are very hands on. Peter, honey, why don’t you have a seat? I was just about to leave and I’m sure she’d enjoy the company.” They often took turns watching over her as she didn’t have any family of her own. 

She studied him from her hospital bed with wide eyes, analyzing his face, “Hey, I know you. Has my boyfriend ever saved you from a disaster? He’s Spider-Man. He saves people. We’re going to get married someday…probably…if he wants to. I’m going to have his Spider babies.” 

May suppressed another laugh and patted her nephew’s arm, “She also had a very good dream about Spider-Man last night. I think you might have some competition on your hands.” She gave Peter a quick wink. “I’ve got to get home. I had a full night shift but I couldn’t leave without stopping in to say good morning to my favorite girl. You take care of her, honey. I’ll see you later.” 

Peter waited until they were alone in the room before he turned to her with a big smile, pulling up a chair to her bedside, “You are an absolute nightmare, you know that? Almost gave me a damn heart attack today. Could you please do me a giant favor and stop telling everyone you meet my biggest secret?” 

“Okay,” she stated with vacant ease. “What’s your secret?” 

He laughed under his breath, “You’re lucky you’re cute.” 

Her smile faded the longer she stared at his face. Her brows pinched together in thought. He could tell she had just remembered something and was working hard to put it into words. 

“...Peter…” She whispered. “That woman called you Peter. That’s my boyfriend’s name. You look like him. You come here every day. You sit by me. You bring me flowers. You talk to me. You fall asleep in that chair every afternoon. You look just like him.” 

He held his breath and nodded, silently watching her try to put the pieces together. It was like he could see her bruised brain starting to heal in front of his eyes. 

“Why do you look like him?” She asked.  

He blinked back the tears starting to press into his eyes, asking softly “Why do you think?”

Her breath caught in her throat, her eyes intently studying him, “You’re Peter, aren’t you? My Peter. I think I know you. I think you might belong to me.”

His smile broke through the tears and he quickly cleared his throat, “Yeah. I belong to you.”

“Cool,” she sighed, sinking back into her pillows. Her face settled back in its placid, nearly vacant expression once more. 

“I love you,” he whispered to her, terrified of letting the moment pass.  

She turned her head back to face him, confusion pulling at her brows, but she flopped her hand out on the bed for him to take. He gladly accepted the offer. It was the first time since she woke up that she willingly reached out for him. His thumb brushed over her fingers as he relished in the feeling of holding her again. He would wait for her forever. 

“I think I love you, too,” she whispered back, a tiny smile gracing her face. "Spider-Man."

[silvershewolf247]

Hypocrisy

Part 1 Here

Glen had stood in between their fair share of arguments. Their mother had always been good at picking them. Whether it be with other parents at their private schools, maids who had stepped out of line, the show director of that terrible sitcom Glen and Glenda were in, or Glenda when they shaved half their head. But this was different. They had always thought their mother would never act on her anger. Of course, they had been wrong, and were realizing that the disappearances of the show director, three teachers, two members of the PTA, two maids, and their nanny Fulvia, may not have been coincidences. But that's what they knew then.

What they know now; Andy would. This man had, according to their father, tried to kill himself nine times, just to spite him. Set him on fire at age six, boiled him alive at age eight, shot him twice and threw him into an industrial fan at sixteen, and used him as a dammit doll for three and a half years. So Glen had no fucking idea where they got the confidence to stand between them. 

“Please…” Glen begged, Andy didn’t turn away from Chucky, just shifted his eyes to Glen. Glen swallowed.

“I…” Glen stammered. They struggled to come up with any good reason Andy should show their father mercy.

“I spent hours working on this.” Glen wondered if that was really the best they could come up with. Andy pushed Glen aside. Glen tried to hold firm, but it just resulted in them falling back and tripping over and onto the couch. Andy pulled their father’s knife out of the coat pocket. Glen was scared, but their father seemed unfazed. Andy moved closer. He stood over Chucky for what felt like an eternity to Glen. 

“Really?” Chucky asked, there was mockery behind his words. He looked up at Andy. Andy looked down at him confused and apprehensive. 

“Why not?” Andy responded. His voice was quiet, breathy, and filled with vitriol. 

“What has happened every time you have tried to hurt me in the past year,” Chucky said. Andy paused.

“I’ll still get to hurt you,” Andy replied. 

“Will you?” Chucky responded. Andy was silent as Chucky walked closer. 

“And will it be worth it,” Chucky continued. 

“What do you mean?” Andy asked.

“Well you seem like you could use a nice night in. And if I’m in charge, we both know you’re not gonna get that” Chucky said, laughing. 

Andy desperately clutched the knife, while Chucky put out his hand. 

“Now knock it off, and give me back my fucking knife,” Chucky said. Andy stood over him, taking quick, insubstantial breaths. When Andy hesitated, Chucky smiled and cocked his head. Andy dropped the knife to the floor and walked past him and into the kitchen. Glen and Chucky could both hear cabinets opening and bottles clinking.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Chucky yelled to the other room. 

“What the fuck do you think I’m doing, I’m getting a drink,” Andy yelled back.

“I never said you could have my liquor,” Chucky yelled, indignant. 

“Fuck you!” Andy screamed back. Chucky and Glen walked into the kitchen. 

“Anyway, I already know where it is,”Andy said as he pulled out a bottle of whiskey and smiled at the two of them. Then he took out a glass and started pouring. Chucky looked at him and took a seat at the island. 

“Pour me a glass while you're up,” Chucky asked. 

“Why the fuck would I do that?” Andy asked, still angry. 

“Well, why would I want to stay in on a Friday night, if my best friend’s going to be rude?” Chucky asked. He cocked his head and smirked. Andy closed his eyes and took a deep breath, before sliding the glass over across the island and over to Chucky. 

“See, that wasn’t so hard,” Chucky mocked. He smiled and took a sip. Andy drank from the bottle.  

“Don’t drink from the bottle if you’re not gonna finish it,” Chucky responded. Andy held up a finger, telling Chucky to wait a second, as he kept drinking. It took a moment and a half, but he finally put down the bottle. 

“Who said I wasn’t gonna finish it,” Andy asked as he sat down opposite Chucky. Glen quickly realized everyone was sitting down, so they grabbed a chair and sat on the side of the island between them. 

“That’s some strong stuff sport, lotta alcohol for a little guy,” Chucky responded. 

“Scared of a little liver damage, Chucky,” Andy said, before taking another long chug. Chucky rolled his eyes and took another sip. 

“You should really slow down, savor the taste,” Chucky responded. Andy finished his second chug. 

“The taste isn’t why I’m drinking it,” Andy responded, before taking another chug.

“Well then maybe you shouldn’t have picked my five hundred dollar whiskey,” Chucky said. 

“Oh poor you, am I wasting the money you stole off one of your victims,” Andy responded, taking another drink. 

“Technically speaking. We stole the money. Off of our victim,” Chucky said. Andy slammed the bottle onto the table. Glen flinched at the noise. The three of them sat in awkward silence. 

“Okay,” Glen was the first to break the silence. “This is the first time I've seen you two interact,” they continued. There was another pause. 

“And can I just say… I’m not loving the energy,” Glen said, speaking in a patronizing, high pitched, half whisper. 

“So let’s all calm down, we can talk, and I’m sure find some middle ground and friendly reconciliation,” Glen finished. They looked proud of themself. Andy looked over at Glen.

“Glen,” Andy said. 

“Yes,” Glen responded. 

“Shut up,” Andy finished.

“Okay,” Glen responded quietly, and folded into themself.   

“Hey, don’t tell my kid to shut up,” Chucky responded, finally getting a bit angry and giving Andy the negative reaction he had been looking for.

“Then tell your fucking kid they shouldn’t be chiming in on shit they don’t know anything about,” Andy continued, getting more frustrated.

“It’s not their fault they haven’t been told what happened,” Chucky was on the verge of yelling.  

“Do you want to tell them,” Andy responded. Chucky was silent for a second. Then he sucked a breath in through his teeth and sighed. 

“I’d really prefer not to,” he responded, much softer. 

“Hey, can we stop talking about me like I’m not here. What’s going on?” Glen asked. Andy and Chucky were silent. Chucky looked at Andy who was smiling for once. 

“Oh please, do tell. I won’t interrupt. I want to hear how you explain this to make yourself father of the year,” Andy said, he chuckled a bit and took another drink. 

“Well… I was taking care of some important business at the school nearby,” Chucky said. Andy stopped drinking. 

“He was flirting with a nun, who’s convinced he’s the Son of Man,” Andy corrected. Glen looked unsettled and confused. 

“What?” Glen asked. 

“It’s so much worse experiencing it in first person,” Andy said.

“So I was talking to Mixter and her associate in the old chapel,” Chucky continued, ignoring the interruption. 

“And much to my disappointment, he didn’t burst into flames,” Andy interjected. 

“Are you telling the story or am I,” Chucky replied, a little indignant. Andy rolled his eyes and took another drink.

“And unfortunately, someone else happened to be there, and she heard us, and she saw us, and I didn’t wanna deal with the drama, you understand,” Chucky said. 

“Not really,” Glen responded. 

“He killed her,” Andy said. Glen looked at their father with big sad eyes. And Chucky looked for a way to spin this. 

“Snapped her neck like a twig,” Andy continued, happy to make Chucky’s life harder.

“Okay, ya little fucking liar. Firstly, if you can’t keep your mouth shut, don’t say you’re not gonna interrupt. Secondly, we killed her” Chucky said. 

“Fuck you” Andy said. He was quieter, looking down at the bottle in his hand. Glen could see a tremor running through him. He swallowed, Glen only had a second to wonder what Andy was thinking, 

“Lightweight,” Chucky said. Andy put down the bottle and swallowed again, trying to keep that half a bottle of whiskey down. Andy closed his eyes and leaned his head back.

“Anyway, I don’t know why you’re acting all upset. I know you’re used to this by now,” Chucky continued.

“You killed a child,” Andy responded, his tone was tired, he didn’t move or look at Chucky.

“What” Glen responded in horror. 

“She was a teenager,” Chucky defended. Andy put his head in his hands and grabbed at his hair,

“She was 12,” Andy said, his voice muffled and defeated. He still wasn’t looking at Chucky.

“She was at least 16,” Chucky defended. 

“That’s still a child!” Andy said, finally looking up at Chucky. Chucky rolled his eyes. Glen just sat there taking in what they had heard. 

“How could you?” Glen said, there was horror and anger in their voice. “Why would you?” Chucky was quiet in the face of Glen’s questioning. Glen started to get angrier.

“Why do you have to ruin every nice moment we could have?” Glen asked. Chucky took another breath.

“Why are you acting surprised, you know what I’m about,” Chucky said, as he took another drink.

“Why are you such a terrible father?” Glen continued, angry at their father’s blasé response. 

“Why are you such a fucking hypocrite!” Chucky said, Glen flinched a little at his anger. But they kept their head high

“I would never kill someone,” Glen responded. 

“There’s a partially melted corpse that disagrees with that,” Chucky responded. Glen got quiet. There was a pause as Glen took in that information. 

“Did I set a lady on fire?” Glen asked.

“What no,” Chucky said. He sounded confused. Glen let out a relieved breath. 

“That was Glenda,” Chucky continued. Glen took the information in, they weren’t happy, but they weren’t surprised. 

“You melted a guy with acid,” Chucky continued. “I still have the picture if you wanna see. I know it’s somewhere around here,” he finished, then looking around the room. 

“What?” Glen asked, their voice had gotten smaller than usual.

“Yeah, it was fucking amazing,” Chucky said and patted Glen’s back. 

“I killed a man,” Glen said, breathlessly. They had a thousand yard stare. 

“I mean, he was a member of the paparazzi, not much of a man if you ask me,” Chucky said. There was another pause as Glen stared into the distance. 

“Don’t feel too bad, you’re nowhere near as bad as him” Chucky said, pointing at Andy. 

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Andy asked.  

“I mean if we’re talking hypocrisy here, my little killer’s got nothing on you,” Chucky said, patting Glen’s back. Glen broke out into tears and hid their head on the table in their arms. Andy didn’t respond. He looked at Chucky, trying to figure out what Chucky met. Chucky interrupted before he could. 

“You and little Mx. Sanctimonious over here both like to pretend you’re so much better than me. But, at least Glen is mostly consistent. As far as I can tell, ninety percent of the time they are as much a goody two shoes as they claim,” Chucky said

“How do you know the word sanctimonious?” Andy asked. Chucky ignored him. 

“But you, I know what you are,” Chucky continued. 

“Seriously though, when did you learn that word,” Andy asked, ignoring his attempts to dissect him. 

“I know you better than anyone else, I lived with you for, what, three and a half years, surrounded by murder trophies,” Chucky continued.  

“Hunting animals isn’t murder,” Andy responded. 

“You’re right, it’s your pathetic attempt to replace it,” Chucky said. 

“That’s not why I hunt,” Andy said. 

“Then why do you?,” Chucky asked. Andy didn’t have an answer. “And why do you collect weapons? And why did you spend three years torturing someone? And why are you so alone? And so different from everyone else?” Chucky asked. Andy was silent. 

“You wanna know what I think?” Chucky asked.

“Not particularly,” Andy answered. Chucky just smiled. 

“I think when you watched your auntie die, when you helped me kill Eddie, when you watched me kill your doctor, and when you set me ablaze. You noticed something wrong inside of you, maybe it was something I gave to you, or maybe it was always there, just waiting for me to wake it up. Either way, it’s there, and it made you feel something. Excitement, power, the pure unbridled…” Chucky looked for a word. 

“Fun, of taking someone’s life,” Chucky finished.

“I don’t kill people,” Andy said. 

“Aside from me… and Nica if you had reloaded,” Chucky said. 

“You tried to kill Nica,” Glen replied, broken out of their hysterical sobbing by shock. 

“I didn’t want to do that,” Andy said. 

“Ya didn’t hesitate. You shot right through a hostage” Chucky replied. Andy was quiet again. A shame he had been trying to suffocate started rearing its ugly head. 

“Speaking of Nica, when I first used her to kill someone, she cried,” Chucky continued,

“You didn’t.” 

“There’s a lot of things you didn’t do,” Chucky said. 

“I mean, you had twenty years to build a life without me. And you didn’t. You didn’t find a career. Or a family. Or friends. You didn’t even live around people. Most people would have done all of those things. But not you.” 

“Because despite everything, I made you into something better. And you’ve been too scared to admit it.” Chucky continued. Andy was digging his nails into his palms and struggling to breath.

“So you just hid yourself away from the world in your little cabin, and you ignored my voice in your head telling you what would make you happy. And you came up with alternatives that didn’t satisfy you. Admit it Andy, that’s why you don’t let yourself fall asleep like Nica. Because now that you’re killing, you’re enjoying yourself for the first time in years” Chucky said.

“You’re the one doing that, not me,” Andy said, not even convincing himself.

“All I’ve done is push you into someone you were always meant to be. And honestly, I’m proud of you” Chucky said. Andy grabbed the bottle again and looked down at it. He still couldn’t stomach another drink. 

“Face it Andy, there’s a reason I kept coming back for you,” Chucky said. Andy stood up. His chair scraped back. Chucky ignored him.

“Because you’re fucking perfect for me” Chucky finished. Andy chucked the half bottle at Chucky, who moved out of the way and let it hit the cabinets and spill onto the floor. 

“If you’re gonna waste my liquor, I’m not gonna let you have it,” Chucky responded. Andy stood there, angry, scared, and taking shallow breaths. 

“Glen could you be a dear and clean that up,” Chucky asked. Glen went to grab some paper towels. 

“Come on, don’t clean it up,” Andy said. defeated and disappointed, as he sank back down into the chair, buried his head in his arms.

[cheetour]

it's time. bg3 high school AU

Baldur's Gate Community School is a rundown secondary school and all of the party are down on their luck teachers. Tav is the vice principal

The school's board of management consists of: Ketheric Thorm, Orin the Red, Enver Gortash, and the Absolute (head of the board). Yes the Absolute is still [SPOILERS]. it's completely unchanged. except for being the head of the board of management

(and Minthara, who's the head of the parent teacher association)

Gale is an ineffictive English teacher who is now living in an apartment after his toxic ex-wife kicked him and the cat out. used to work in the very high end, private Waterdeep Academy but Mystra got him fired. was spotted scrolling grindr during a study class

Astarion hasn't been seen turning up to teach his scheduled history classes since the early 2000s. they don't have the resources to stop him. Mol (a student) is blackmailing him and every Tuesday we meets her behind the bicycle shed and hands her a tenner. nobody knows what she's blackmailing him for but he gets VERY annoyed if you ask about it

Wyll and Karlach teach drama and PE respectively and play squash together every weekend. unclear if they're romantically involved or not. they might be married. someone asked Wyll once and he said 'we're family, but not legally' which answered nothing

I think it would be funny if Lae'zel taught geography. somehow

Shadowheart is the secretary. you couldn't put her in a room with 20 children and expect her to kill none of them I don't think

All of the tieflling kids are students at the school. but so is every goblin in the game. Dror Raglin and Priestess Gut are going to college next year

mol, despite expectations, is president of the student council, which is a deeply corrupt organisation

jaheira and halsin are both members of the PTA. they are performing insane acts of political intrigue at the monthly meeting & coffee social. they have an agreed code word with minsc that means 'enough is enough. lets kill everyone here'

so's kagha. she teaches maths. arabella (a student) cheated on her midterm exams and kagha attempted to kill her with a snake

The school was once a fine institution, established by the legendary Balduran himself. Shadowheart has to guard the Artefact as part of her secreterial duties. She had her memories wiped by Shar to achieve this still. She's like a secretary but Shar gives her the secreterial powers through faith (despite the mundane nature of this AU Shar is still a god)

instead of the dream guardian using telepathy they send texts to Tav from an unknown number. they all end with '...........from your Dream Guardian', usually that many ellipses but sometimes more

Halsin is the caretaker also. and his bears and animals just hang around while he works. not clear how the place is getting cleaner

Owlbear cub just got into the walls one day and can't be retrieved

final battle = yearly fundraising talent show

[just-an-enby-lemon]

Uuuh character thingy except I tried to put it into different categories

• I know u know this character

> Edward Nygma

> Carlos(from wtnv) idk his name

> Jonathan Crane

> Dirk Gently

• Blorbos from my show that I hope u don't know nothing about so u come with funny headcannons

> House (House MD)

> Jonathan Sims (TMA)

• Idfk what I'm writing anymore

> Cebolinha (yes from turma da mônica)

:3<

Okay let's go.

> Edward Nygma: He collects strategy boardgames. While it was Doctor Leland and later Oswald that tried to make an Arkham boardgame night he is both the one sugesting the games and (in Oswald's case cause there was not much he could do in Arkham) provinding it. He is also an insuferable player.

> Carlos: He learned embroidery from his granny and was really good at it. He mostly uses this talent to make beutifull paterns in his lab coats sleeves as a way to different his morning lab coat from his night lab coat from his fancy lab coat from his date labcoat from his sleep labcoat from his seductive labcoat (that has changed from seductive labcoat to the labcoat that seduces Cecil in specific) from his serius science labcoat to his just assisting the other guys in the lab today labcoat to his Esteban's PTA meetings labcoat from his secret labcoat and so goes on (he cannonically has a bunch of labcoats for different occasions and I love it for him). He does cute patches for Cecil and Esteban (he also did one for Aubregine, he never did for Khoshekh because like a proper cat he hated cute clothes) more rarely for his friends and since they adopted Steban he is learning to knit to make him a cute baby onesie of the uncomprehensive horrors.

> Jonathan Crane: When Jonathan worked on Gotham University he was a firm supporter of inclusion programs. He would never shame a student that was dedicated but simply didn't had the same tools as the others (be because they came from a school from a poor area with low govermental investiment or because they were neurodivergent or had to work all day and had no time to study or was facing personal problems stopping them from succed like an abusive househood or relationship or bullying or simply systemic discrimination) and would do all he could to help them. On the other hand priviledged students specially bullys always suffered in his classes and a lot of them became his text subjects.

> Dirk Gently: [blorbo it's been sooo long!!!] He is ace. I won't explain he just is. He also is nb and uses all pronouns. Todd knows neither of this things and tbh closested Todd likely doesn't even know what an nb person is until he Dirk and Farrah (and Amanda and Rowdy 3 and Bart and Mona) went to a protest against the rise of transphobic laws in the UK.

Now since the hc ended up being more about Todd I'll also say that Dirk loves sweets and eats the head of people/animal shaped things first so they die and won't be in pain. He also unfortunally eats the cookie first and preffers it from the white part when eating orios. Farrah rarely buys oreos because of that and when they have oreos she and Tood refuse to look at Dirk eating it. Also yeah I'm a firm defender of they lvie together at Todds house after they created their agency. I'm firmly divided between Dirk/Tood and Farrah/Tina or Dirk/Todd/Farrah as my ships for the show (besides Amanda/Rowdy3, best polycule).

• Blorbos

> House: He secretly loves gummy bears but he will never let people know because they might think he is soft and he is not. The only times HD eats gummys in front of the other doctors he slowly eats the members before the head so they will assume he has no feelings and let him be. And yes last time I saw this show was almost ten years ago this was a very blind hc.

> Jonathan Sims: Okay, this is a real blind hc because I want to listen to Magnus Archives (though I'm afraid I'll cry a lot) and won't risk spoilers. So this is a very simple one: he loves Animal Crossing and has the best island (but Nico every island is beutifull and what matters is the love the player has, nope, the best one is Jomathan, it has the horrors). Also my first instinct was to say he made all the other characthers in the Sims but that was a low pun.

• O Rei da "Lua"

> Cebolinha: He scams gringos to practice his infalible plan making talent. This six year old boy might never have succeeded in stealing a bunny plushie from the six year old girl with super strengh but he comited identity fraud and stoled a bunch of money. He is six so he has no idea how to convert or use the money but he has it. (Eu deixe em inglês pq eu acho mais engraçado do ponto de vista de alguém que não conhece o cebolinha).

[philhoffman]

This week’s Monday Philm very well might be the great cinematic work of all time, The Master (2012), dir. Paul Thomas Anderson.

I’ve never written a full, in-depth review of The Master, partly because there is so much to say and so little that captures it sufficiently. This is the first time I’ve watched it again in almost a year—since I saw it in theaters last March, a dream come true—and I think I can say I finally saw the full genius of Phil Hoffman’s performance as Lancaster Dodd on this viewing. Not that I didn’t recognize it as an incredible performance before, I absolutely did, but something this time around it was truly transcendent. He is once again unrecognizable, the Phil we know and love become another human being entirely. Even Joaquin Phoenix’s performance was startlingly sublime this time, on par with Phil’s as they elevated each other.

Phil once described Freddie and Lancaster as two animals circling each other, fascinated by each other, thinking “How do we become one person? So we can be perfect?” The Master is no doubt a love story (among many, many other things). In the same interview, PSH said “Freddie will never not be the love of this man’s life.” The phone call Freddie receives in the movie theater—it may be a dream, but Dodd had it too. “I miss you. We’re tied together.” The way Dodd protects Freddie’s head when he’s jumping during the wall-to-wall processing. Clark said he was worried Freddie might be after Dodd’s unpublished life work, and Dodd responds by taking Freddie to the middle of the dessert to retrieve that valuable work, just the two of them together.

Every frame full of love in this final collaboration between Phil and Paul. Three of my all-time favorite scenes from any film—A-Roving, rolling around on the grass together, and Slow Boat to China. PTA has the greatest close-ups on the most interesting faces of any director and The Master is another great example. The way Dodd’s eyes light up when we first see him talking to Freddie, how he blushes at his own brilliance. Freddie’s dark eyes, his restlessness—until he feels he’s disappointing his master, at which point he slaps himself hard and focuses and sits stiller than ever before and stares into Master’s eyes. He’s a liar but he’s honest, he’s a stray dog. Freddie will likely die soon, young and drunk, but Lancaster Dodd will live a long, miserable life because he’s lost his brave boy.

I’ve been thinking about the theory that Peggy is really the titular “Master,” not Lancaster, which is an idea I’ve appreciated in the past but I don’t think it held up this time. (And not just because in interviews, talking about his character, Phil referred to himself as “the master” multiple times). Peggy is not really in control—sexually dominating, sure, but she’s entirely unable to pull her husband away from Freddie. The only reason they ultimately part is because Freddie decides to leave, and you get the feeling Lancaster will never be happy again.

Dodd created the Cause because he wanted to create something eternal. “Our spirits live on in the whole of time,” he says. I think this was the film Paul Thomas Anderson—and Phil, and Joaquin—were meant to make, to be part of something rare and eternal. Its magic is unutterable.

[trickstercaptain]

@shadowcovcn & @musecraft sent a meme : jack & laszlo & nadja 🡢 ultimate ship meme

GENERAL:

• Rate the Ship -   Awful | Ew | No pics pls | I’m not comfortable | Alright | I like it! | Got Pics? | Let’s do it! | Why is this not getting more attention?! | The OTP to rule all other OTPs ( the ot3 i have always wanted in my life, and they all complement each other so well that it might as well be canon like all crossover ships that exist on this blog ) • How long will they last? - in vampire verse, they may not have always been physically together, but they've been going for 250 years at least. in mortal verse, again their polyamory means that they will probably stand the test of time as a throuple. • How quickly did/will they fall in love? - well for laszlo & nadja it was extremely quickly, and don't mention the l word around jack but he does eventually grow to care very deeply about them. 

• How was their first kiss? - nadja & laszlo kissed first ofc, and then jack was invited into the throuple later, after kissing both laszlo and nadja separately. but laszlo was very much the catalyst in mortal verse at least.

WEDDING:

• Who proposed? - laszlo proposed to nadja, and jack was very happy for them both.

• Who is the best man/men? - in mortal verse, jack was their best man and also their chief bridesmaid. he got to have sex with them both during the wedding reception.

• Who is the bridesmaid(s)? - see above. 

• Who did the most planning? - nadja.

• Who stressed the most? - also nadja. jack found it extremely entertaining.

• How fancy was the ceremony? - Back of a pickup truck | 2 | 3 | 4 | Normal Church Wedding | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Kate and William wish they were this big. ( it was all down to nadja )

• Who was specifically not invited to the wedding? - christophe lmao. 

SEX:

• Who is on top? - nadja by a very close margin, but honestly all three of them like to top. 

• Who is the one to instigate things? - they all do depending on their mood.

• How healthy is their sex life? - Barely touch themselves let alone each other | 2 | 3 | 4 | Once a couple weeks, nothing overboard | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | They are humping each other on the couch right now

• How kinky are they? - Straight missionary with the lights off | 2 | 3 | 4 | Might try some butt stuff and toys | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Don’t go into the sex dungeon without a horse’s head

• How long do they normally last? - in vampire verse, they can go from sunset to sunrise, and honesty they'd get pretty close in mortal verse too.

• Do they make sure each person gets an equal amount of orgasms? - yess they all take turns depending on the way desires play out and all participants end up satisfied. 

• How rough are they in bed? - Softer than a butterfly on the back of a bunny | 2 | 3 | 4 | The bed’s shaking and squeaking every time | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Their dirty talk is so vulgar it’d make Dwayne Johnson blush. Also, the wall’s so weak it could collapse the next time they do it.

• How much cuddling/snuggling do they do? - No touching after sex | 2 | 3 | 4 | A little spooning at night, or on the couch, but not in public | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | They snuggle and kiss more often than a teen couple on their fifth date to a pillow factory.

CHILDREN:

• How many children will they have naturally? - jack would support nadja & laszlo if they decided to have children naturally and will be an uncle, but he also doesn't want to be any direct part of it

• How many children will they adopt? - laszlo has baby colin and the raccoons in vampire verse and both jack & nadja are mutually agreed when they arrive at staten island from london that they don't understand it at all.

• Who gets stuck with the most diapers? - laszlo by default. 

• Who is the stricter parent? - nadja.

• Who stops the kid(s) from doing dangerous stunts after school? - likely laszlo.

• Who remembers to pack the lunch(es)? - jack, weirdly enough.

• Who is the more loved parent? - laszlo

• Who is more likely to attend the PTA meetings? again, probably laszlo.

• Who cried the most at graduation? - definitely laszlo.

• Who is more likely to bail the child(ren) out of trouble with the law? - jack. laszlo would try to bail them out but do it badly. 

COOKING:

• Who does the most cooking? - jack, because he's the one who can cook. nadja does occasionally get involved too.

• Who is the most picky in their food choice? - i don't feel like any of them are picky when it comes to food tbh. possibly nadja, but only by a small margin. 

• Who does the grocery shopping? - jack & nadja grocery shop together and it's very cute.

• How often do they bake desserts? - i think jack & nadja would enjoy baking desserts together.

• Are they more of a meat lover or a salad eater? - they're vampires, they like meat lmao. but the same definitely goes for mortal verse too. 

• Who is more likely to surprise the other(s) with an anniversary dinner? - in canon nadja & laszlo remember by decades & centuries. in mortal verse. it would most likely be up to nadja, and when she does remember both laszlo & jack get it in the neck for forgetting.

• Who is more likely to suggest going out? - jack, whose spontaneity would encourage nadja to do so too. if laszlo was left to his own devices he'd stay at home indefinitely. 

• Who is more likely to burn the house down accidently while cooking? - laszlo. no contest. 

CHORES:

• Who cleans the room? - nadja, who will boss jack & laszlo into helping.  

• Who is really against chores? - none of them are particularly fond of chores, but they're not against doing the basics either. 

• Who cleans up after the pets? - jack.

• Who is more likely to sweep everything under the rug? - ........the boys.

• Who stresses the most when guests are coming over? - nadja.

• Who found a dollar between the couch cushions while cleaning? - jack is absolutely that lucky bastard lmao.

MISC:

• Who takes the longer showers/baths? - nadja. a girl's gotta pamper herself. 

• Who takes the dog out for a walk? - jack, assuming they all adopted a dog.

• How often do they decorate the room/house for the holidays? - nadja would insist upon it every year.

• What are their goals for the relationship? - i don't think any of them set any real long term goals for the relationship? it's just to make each other happy and have lots of sex, and that works for them.

• Who is most likely to sleep till noon? - in vampire verse they would obviously sleep longer than that, but in mortal verse it's jack & laszlo.

• Who plays the most pranks? - jack, and nadja hates it. 

[badolmen]

“Are you kidding me?” The hunter growled like an offended PTA mom, not like a woman with a definitely probably broken leg and a bloody nose. Ramming her car into her target (and subsequently driving it over a cliff edge on a narrow mountain road) wasn’t exactly the plan, especially considering the storm rolling in.

The wasn’t the worst of her luck.

Her target, the person she was charged with killing - they weren’t dead, despite being crushed between the crumpled front of her car and the tree it had come to rest at.

This was messy.

“I’m too old for this shit.” She grumbled, wiping blood from her face and tugging on her mittens. A tentative attempt to exit the destroyed vehicle exacerbated the burning bone deep ache in her shin, but she pressed on.

She had a job to do.

It was a damn miracle she was able to manage the jack in such a way that gave the half crushed not-corpse of her target enough room to fall limp to the ground, bloody and broken and twitching.

Flesh was knitting back together and bones were refitting themselves beneath regenerating tendons, slowly. Oh so slowly. Was it always this slow for them? Did it still hurt?

Snow was starting to fall, thick and damp in the late winter air. She needed shelter. And they sure as hell weren’t going to be of much use.

—

Consciousness returned to them slowly, every agonizing breath dragging them closer and closer to the waking surface. They didn’t want to wake. To see the corpse of the hunter mangled from the crash. She shouldn’t have followed. She shouldn’t have chased.

But the sensation around them wasn’t coarse cold snow or broken tree branches or twisted metal still warm from a fuel fire. It was solid, if damp wood beneath their back, and the unpleasant texture of polyester fleece.

They opened their eyes slowly, the gentle glow of a struggling fire illuminating a dim, decrepit hunting cabin. Part of the roof had collapsed, letting a grey light and heavy snow drift to the floor. Movement caught their eye, and they shot up from where they lay.

Their escape was hindered by a simple para cord bind at their wrist. As they scrabbled to untie it, the hunter spoke.

“Why do you run?” There was something in her voice, soft and curious and sorrowful. They stopped pulling the para cord knot undone to look at her.

She was a ghost of a memory, deep laugh lines set above a square jaw. Her forehead was creased with age, hair silver and thinning beneath her wool cap. Her nose was red - from the cold, and from a recent break.

“Why do you follow?” They hated how their voice broke, their perpetual puberty interrupting centuries of wisdom and knowledge with a reminder that they would never be as tall as their father was when he died. Never as old as their great grand nephews when fever took them.

The woman’s concern deepened, her breath clouding in the cold.

“I’m Margaret Willow, my family - ”

“Has been hunting me like an animal for centuries.” They were nearly sobbing, tuning their attention back to untying the cord that bound them to a half rotted wall panel. They didn’t see the realization dawn across Margaret’s features, a flash of horror and guilt in her dark eyes.

“You don’t remember?” Her question was soft, but their eyes were sharp as knives. Of course they didn’t. They could only retain so much information over the years - and whatever petty feud that initiated this centuries long hunt was lost on them.

“Of course not - I’m not a fucking computer. I only have so much space in my head for whatever stupid shit pissed off your ancestors enough to make this,” they tugged at their now bloody and ripped shirt, “a regular problem for me. Do you know how hard it is to stay anonymous these days? I’m lucky to hit a homeless shelter that doesn’t have me on file at this point.”

“You asked for this.” The woman’s voice was strained, there was a shiver of desperation in her words. “All those years ago - we have records, how else do you think we keep finding you?” Her sigh was partly a laugh as she turned to poke at the dying fire. “You were his friend. And he was yours, so he made his children swear to complete the deed he couldn’t.”

Memories trickled thin and icy, a barely thawed winter river on a sunny day. Faces they couldn’t quite place. A laugh that sounded safe. The sour and distinct smell of cattle. They squinted at Margaret, the slope of her jaw and bend of her nose silhouetted against the embers.

“Why?” Their voice felt small, too small for even their permanently stunted stature. “Why would I ask for that?”

Margarat’s dark eyes darted to meet their own.

“You wanted to die. You’d drown yourself in the well and wait weeks before climbing out when the townsfolk couldn’t find your body. You’d throw yourself off your horse to be trampled in stampedes. You didn’t want to live anymore - not when he was going to die and go where you couldn’t follow.”

They remembered soft, brightly colored coats - warm and dense against the steppe winds. They remembered him beside them, the same age in body and twice as naive of heart. They remembered his long dark hair, framing sun kissed skin and dark eyes that shone with a lust for life that frightened them.

It broke their heart to remember - to realize they had forgotten. They hadn’t lost his laugh or the weight of his embrace to time, they had hidden it behind trivial details and a veneer of feigned indifference. For a moment, they remembered how they felt watching him smile at them from the center of a horseback party - he now twice the age they once shared and half as thrilled to sharpen arrow heads and blades for battle.

They promised him they wouldn’t die, not before him. Years later they buried their undying guilt in a promise to themself that they would die if it was the last thing they ever did.

Somewhere between the windy plains and mountain trees they had buried it all too deep to remember either promise.

“Gesar?” A name that made them feel whole for the first time in centuries. A name that hollowed out their chest and set their heart in mortar. “Do you remember?” She was shivering, ice collecting on her eyelashes.

“I don’t want to die.” A betrayal of self and a promise to another unbroken. They met her eyes, their own damp with fresh tears too hot with emotion to be frozen by the chill in the air. They looked to the dying embers. “I don’t want you to die.” Her chattering teeth were hidden by a grin.

“Me either kid. Want to find me some kindling?”

Edit: Donate to Palestinians in Gaza

A family has been trying and failing to kill you, an immortal, for many generations. In fact, it’s been going on for so long you forgot why they started hunting you in the first place.