#and a reason why so many lecturers are abandoning it altogether

[whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk]

Mini rant but please tell me why I have just seen someone legitimately say it doesn’t matter if university students use ai to write their essays

[dontdoititsscary]

All the reasons not to try

The Re-Learners lament

(No one needs to read this but me)

I fully understand why some folks who have drawn forever and then develop an interest in developing formal skill dabble their toes in learning and then say ‘fuck this’ and either give right up and go back to old habits (been me a couple times) or burn hot and bright spamming development until they burn out and decide to move on from art entirely(Also been me). 

It mostly feels like the deck is stacked against you - there’s too much information, there’s too many competitive mindsets, there’s too much encouragement that feels hollow and at every step of the way it feels like you have to defend yourself against the question of both ‘why are you not better?’ and ‘why are you not satisfied?’It comes from everywhere. 

When you’re an amateur and you’re a beginner’s beginner, people want to help because it feels good to help and you’re easy to help. People engage with your work because you are an underdog of underdogs. You deserve that help and attention of course. It is a hard thing to truly know nothing and be willing to look to others for assistance. It’s a pretty big trust fall.

When you’re an amateur, but pro in your skills, other amateurs and pros want to help you because you’re also easy to help. For pros- it becomes talking shop with a peer and is probably pretty fun- you’re tackling the high level problems of someone who mostly got it figured out. Other amateurs find you hella aspirational and if they are the kind of peers that are trying to work the engagement numbers (or honestly if they are the elitist type, that kind is less common but definitely exists)- you become the only kind of fellow amateur who is worth it to hitch a wagon to. After all- if we’re going hard on our #grind in the attention economy- you’d ideally want to be friends with, critique and spend your time with artists of your caliber or better - either in skills or engagement.

But when you’re in the middle - when you can do X kinda well, but y needs work - or when you have cool ideas or one skill you’re decent at- your work is publicly flawed and has the nerve to aspire to be better. It looks awkward because it is representative of an incomplete knowledge base and synthesis of skills. Your mistakes look obvious to anyone with a trained eye - even other amateurs. 

Your mistakes look so obvious that it almost looks like you defiantly ignored the right way to do things. People assume you knew how to do things, but your mistakes are 1)laziness, 2) arrogance  3) lack of willingness to improve. Sometimes people get weirdly hostile when critiquing you - thinking it’s their job to shake you out of the complacency they assumed led to your partial success. In a weird sense - you lose the benefit of the doubt.

No one wants to see the lag in between when someone starts to realize the right way to do something and when they are actually capable of it. People don’t know how to help you out of that pit, so they handwave you and tell you you’ll figure it out yourself or they lecture you on mindset and the importance of practice. After all- if you knew better, you’d be better. And if you’re not better, it’s because you’re not working hard/smart enough. Your every mistake is evidence of this. People communicate this all the time without meaning to. 

To occupy the middle spot is to feel both insecure in your skill because there are obvious gaps and yet fiercely defensive of it because people make all kinds of weird assumptions for why you’re not already there yet. Your work is not charmingly ugly. It’s lazy, it’s purposefully misdirected - it’s a sign of your inability to prioritize. It becomes easy to retreat backwards when you feel that pressure at the middle and stick to only what you can already pull off - or abandon the whole thing altogether. 

You push and you grind and everybody goes ‘woah chill, remember balance, duh everyone knows you’ll burn out’. You experiment and everybody goes ‘woah chill your work lacks x or y, are you sure you’re studying enough to try this? Really sure?’ Whatever you’re doing feels wrong. And cause you’re questioned no matter what, you doubt every single choice you make. Which is hell - because if you’re a self taught amateur- part of your job is curating a complete art education- deciding not just what skills to work on, but when and how. Not just all that but learning how to accurately assess your own weaknesses. You learn to distrust your skill, your taste and your closeness to “better”

I went to an in-person art class. The assignment was to draw a cast of an ear, as accurately as possible - nailing the right proportions, shape and eventually value. Before we moved onto any rendering, the teacher wanted to check our proportions. He said to me - ‘do you know most of this was pretty close to dead on?.’ And of course, when he checked how tall I had made the cast itself, he looked at where I made my first mark to determine the bottom and then where I made my second mark to determine the bottom. The first time I made the mark - I had it in the right place. Then I second guessed it and made the cast too short. He asked why I second guessed my proportion. It’s because I assumed I was wrong.

In my second attempt, my proportions were worse. He said that happens sometimes. I was right, then I convinced myself I was wrong, then I became wrong and became wronger. New information made me worse before it made me better. That is what it feels like to be an amateur in the awkward stages of learning. You were a little right at something, but then you blinked and you’re wrong. Then you stay wrong because everyone saw your mistake and assumed that you meant it. It feels like everyone is saying you’re wrong, then you say it to yourself. You become encouragement proof. You circle the drain. You retreat into old habits or you fade away. 

[from-seas-to-skies]

The Teacher / Bakugou x Reader ♕︎

warnings: NSFW, teacher/student relationship, oral sex, spitting, sir kink, slut shaming, somewhat brat taming, age difference, unprotected sex

words: 5,772

(a/n): Bakugou is 30 in this; reader is younger (college age)

-

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

One, two, three, four… How long was it going to take until class ended again?

Looking up from your notebook, you stare up at the clock, the large, monotonous face seemingly glaring straight back at you. You don’t know how it happens, but time always moves so slow when it comes to your calculus class. Frankly, you’d rather ditch the class altogether, but if you wanted to graduate from college, you had to pass. Curse stupid curriculums and all that shit.

However, despite absolutely dreading having to stare at numbers for a solid hour and a half, there is a plus side to taking this dreaded class. In fact, it’s the very reason why you signed up for it in the first place. You’ve heard so many wonderful things about it, all from girls and guys alike, and you knew you had to see it up close and personal – rather, you had to see him.

Professor Bakugou.

Age thirty, drives a Land Rover, and, most importantly, single.

He’s about as dreamy as they come; a complete and utter Dreamboat Annie, absolutely huge in both height and stature, intelligent, and handsome. He’s only been a professor for a few years, but it’s been made apparent to the school that he’s worth it. Not only are his teaching methods and lectures incredible, but he’s turned out some of the highest grades your college has even seen. That itself is impress, and, combined with the hype of how hot he is, it’s no wonder people rush to take his classes.

So, when it came time for class schedules to come out, you were excited, needless to say. Despite having a general disliking to math in the first place, you figured this one guy could be what it takes to turn that idea around. Oh, but that was before you first laid your eyes on him.

Shit, you had heard that he was attractive – godly, even – but this? You weren’t expecting this. His biceps alone could crack a watermelon, and his sharp jawline could easily cut diamonds. It sounds cliché, that’s true, but you have no other way of putting it. Words did not do this man any justice.

At first, his constant yelling and crude demeanor were a total turn off. Professor Bakugou was essentially the teacher version of Gordon Ramsay, and you weren’t entirely sure if you liked that or not. However, as time continued, you actually grew accustomed to it. In fact, if he didn’t yell at least once during the class, you’d immediately figured he was having a bad day.

That’s when the thoughts began. Call it infatuation, a mindless crush, whatever, but you wanted Professor Bakugou. Your eyes soon began to watch his large hands flex while he wrote on the board rather than the content itself. You’d watch his forearms flex while he turned the page in his textbook, prominent veins inviting you for a better look. How you longed to touch him, to grab his sturdy shoulders or pull his wild hair. He always looked so good, clothes tailored to fit his muscular frame perfectly.

You’d fantasize about the most random of scenarios, each of them usually ending up with him bending you over his desk at the front of the room. You liked colder days the best, especially since Professor Bakugou had the habit of wearing form-fitting sweaters that outlined his massive pecs or the swell of his arms. You wanted to make him feel better, to sit underneath the desk and suck him off while he taught the rest of the class. Those narrow hips had to be strong, and you’d be damned if you never got to experience their power at least once.

It’s almost as if Professor Bakugou had cast a spell over all of his students. Nearly all of them gushed about how great he was; and, if you were in the proper company, they exchanged fantasies or proclamations about how fucking gorgeous he was. You’d usually grow bitter at these types of conversations. It was a crush, for fuck’s sake. There was no need to get all pouty like some problematic schoolgirl.

Still, the thoughts wouldn’t go away, not when he taught, not when he yelled. His booming voice became a part of your wicked fantasies, wondering how it’d sound to hear him grunting your name or commanding you to spread his legs for him. Again and again, you told yourself that it was fine, that people develop crushes on their teachers all the time. It was only in the dead of night that you’d have your hand stuffed down your pants and mouth moaning his name into a pillow was when you regretted it. It was a phase, nothing more.

And yet, over two months into the semester, and these thoughts still won’t go away. The constant ticking of the clock brings you back down to Earth, your eyes focusing on the problems before you. Swallowing thickly, you loosen your hand, now just noticing how hard you’ve begun to clench your pencil. Your insides feel oddly warm, that pleasant, heavy feeling sitting behind your belly button. Dammit, you mentally curse, this is not the time to be getting distracted.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

If only class could end sooner.

“Right,” Professor Bakugou suddenly says from his desk, “this Friday, I’m holding a study session for the upcoming exam on Monday. There’s only going to be a limited number of seats available, so if you wanna join, here’s your chance.” With his words, he holds a blank sheet of notebook paper up, a rather bored expression on his face.

He must be tired, you think, unconsciously biting your bottom lip. But why?

Around you, students shuffle to the front of the class, waiting for a chance to scribble their names onto the paper. Some seem a bit more excited than others, obviously arching their backs or flipping their hair over their shoulders. With a scoff, you look back down to your work. Did they really think they could catch his attention like that? Yeah, so he doesn’t show off a ring on his finger, but it’s pretty likely that he has people throwing themselves at him all the time. Besides, Professor Bakugou is a strict guy; there’s no way he’d engage in a relationship with a student.

You really shouldn’t be getting your hopes up. It’s pointless to pine after your teacher like that, especially with the risks that come along with getting involved with each other. Still, you can’t help but feel bitter. Professor Bakugou is a god that walks amongst men, so how could you not want somebody like him?

“Alright, that’s all for today. Class dismissed,” Professor Bakugou calls out. Dammit, you spaced out again. Maybe you should get that checked out?

With a sigh, you stuff your belongings into your backpack and draw to a stand. You wish it would be spring already; trudging through snow and ice is never fun, and the fact that your dorm is basically on the other side of campus makes it even more rough. Pulling your coat on and slinging your backpack over your shoulders, you make way towards the classroom door, completely unaware of a set of eyes watching your every move.

-

“Man, this is impossible,” your best friend, Ashido Mina, groans. “I’m going to bomb this exam for sure!” Sprawled out on her stomach, she squirms on the floor, her face scrunching with her displeasure.

You, on the other hand, sit cross-legged across from her. Notebooks and math textbooks surround the two of you, your laptop and calculator at the ready. Bags of chips and pretzels sit to the side, along with abandoned coffee cups and empty water bottles. Professor Bakugou’s exams were notorious for being hard, but at the same time, if you payed attention in class and studied, you’d succeed. The thing is, though, that neither you nor Mina are the best when it comes to math.

“I thought you went to his study session?” you ask, glancing up from your own notebook.

Flashing you a pout, Mina nervously runs a hand through her fluffy hair. “Well, yeah, but you know how it goes! A secluded area with Professor Bakugou! It’s like a dream come true! It was hard to focus when he’s leaning over your shoulder like that…”

Rolling your eyes, you puff in amusement. “Really? Mina, you know what will happen if you fail this test.”

“Yeah, yeah, but come on! You can’t blame me! You would’ve done the exact same thing!”

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh yes you would’ve!” Mina exclaims, pointing an accusing finger your way. “Don’t pretend like you don’t ogle Professor Bakugou during class! He’s one hell of a hunk, isn’t he? I never knew college professors could be so hot!” she gushes, a giggle following her words. “And that study session – oh my god, I nearly thought I was going to heart attack when he helped me solve this one problem. He’s so warm and he smells great!”

You cock an eyebrow at her. “You were smelling our teacher?”

At that, Mina blows a raspberry and waves a dismissive hand. “I’m not Kaminari, sweetheart. I have class. Besides, Professor Bakugou smells like caramel. Can you believe it? I wonder if he uses cologne or feminine soap.”

Caramel, eh? Now that’s something you can get behind.

“You want him to fuck you, right?”

Wait, what?

Narrowing your gaze at her, your brows knit closely together. “What kind of question is that?”

Mina rolls her eyes. “What, like you don’t think about it? Practically everyone on this campus has thought about it at some point or another? I mean, hello! He’s totally Daddy material. I’ve heard that he goes to the gym sometimes here on campus – turns out he’s huge.”

Huge. Of course this is what Mina chooses to focus on. You wish you had a spray bottle to squirt at her horny ass.

“And I don’t mean muscle wise,” Mina continues, a mischievous expression coming to her face. “I bet he tastes like candy.”

“Mina.”

“Why yes, Mr. Bakugou sir! I’ll gladly suck your fat cock for an A!”

“Mina.”

“His ass is really nice, too. I wouldn’t mind pegging him-“

“MINA.”

“What?”

You smack your forehead and groan as your hand trails down your face. “Are you going to study or not? I don’t know about you, but I’d rather graduate than work at McDonald’s for the rest of my life.”

Mina purses her lips at you in an excessive pout. “You’re such a fun sponge, holy shit. I think you need a good dicking down by Professor Bakugou. Maybe then you’d stop staring after him all the time during class.”

Your face heats up at her words, but there’s no way you’re owning up to that. Okay, so yeah, maybe getting fucked by him would be a dream come true, but you’re more realistic than that. “And you’re not concerned at all that he’s our teacher? You know, like he could lose his job and you could be expelled? That doesn’t bother you? At all?”

Mina shrugs. “Meh.”

“Woooow…. You really are shameless.”

“Hey, you win some, you lose some. If I could get that man to put a ring on my finger, then I’d be okay with it.”

“Yeah, because you definitely want to bring your math professor home. Uh huh, great one. Tell me how that goes.”

With a grunt, Mina rolls over and sits up. “Whatever, man. I’m hungry, so I’m going to go down to the dining hall. Wanna come with?”

Glancing at the alarm clock sitting on your nightstand, you see that it’s only 5:15. True, you could get a bite to eat, but you’d rather stay back and finish a few more problems. “I think I’ll join up with you later,” you tell Mina.

She nods her head and offers you a small smile. “Suit yourself, sweetheart. I’ll see you later.” Gathering up her things, she unceremoniously shoves them into her backpack and salutes you with a goodbye. After she pulls the door shut behind her, you turn back to the task at hand.

It shouldn’t be this hard to solve these last couple of problems, but your brain is really starting to feel the struggle. A dull ache is already forming between your eyeballs, and you truly wonder if you’re going to make it through this or not. Maybe you should take a break, or at least give your eyes a rest. Still, that little stubborn streak in you tells you to carry on. You only have a few more problems left, and you’re so close to finally finishing!

As you set to work, the digits on your alarm clock change as time drags on. Okay, so maybe you’re demanding too much of yourself. Your brain is absolutely fried, and your headache is spreading. Glancing back up at the clock, luminous green lines glare a 5:31. Jeez, it’s only been sixteen minutes since you last checked, yet it seems as though hours have passed. You really want to finish this study session, but the last problem is throwing you in for a loop.

You’ve already scoured your notes and the textbook for how to go about the problem, but your mind is drawing up with a blank. It has to be because you’re tired, right? It’s not that hard… Or is it?

“Dammit,” you mutter, sitting back and pressing your palms flat against the floor. Again, you look at the clock. Frankly, you don’t want to spend all night pouring over this, and you don’t want to skip dinner, either. You know for a fact that Mina will beat your ass for skipping out on food. “Screw it.”

Scrambling off the floor, you throw a thick coat on and slide on your sneakers. Professor Bakugou sometimes has the habit of frequenting his office during the weekends (or so you’ve heard), and you desperately need to know how to solve this problem. Chances are something similar will be on the exam, and you want to get as good of a grade as possible. Plus, if he is there…

You swallow thickly. Now is not the time to let Mina’s previous words get to you.

And so, with your notebook tucked underneath an arm, you take off.

It’s a damned shame that his office is practically on the other side of campus, but you figure it wouldn’t be too bad to get your body moving after spending so much time hunched over. Now that you think about, you could just email him, but you’re not sure how quick he’d respond. This is a dire moment. Okay, maybe not, but still. Maybe you want to see Professor Bakugou. Maybe.

You’re thankful when you finally enter the building, free of the flurries of snow and the seeping chill. Stomping your feet free from snow, you look around, creeped out yet fascinated by the silent, empty halls. You doubt very many people are here besides lingering staff and the janitors. One could only hope that Professor Bakugou is frequenting his office.

As you draw closer and closer to his office, your footsteps bounce off the walls, reminding you of how alone you are. There’s a fifty/fifty chance that he’s even going to be in his office, yet your heart pounds frantically in your chest. If he isn’t there, you’ll just simply turn around and stalk back to your dorm and hope for the best. If he is there, well, you’re not entirely sure what you should say.

He’s your teacher, dammit. It shouldn’t be this hard going up to him and asking him for help. It’s literally his job to help students out; nothing more, nothing less. Still, Mina’s words ring throughout your mind. It’s just a crush, you remind yourself. Stop getting so worked up about it.

There it is, just straight up ahead – Professor Bakugou’s office.

Like the other offices lining the hall, it’s made from a heavy wood, a frosted window place in the top half with Professor Bakugou’s name printed on it. A simple door like this shouldn’t intimidate you so much, but yet it does. All you have to do is knock on it, wait for a possible response, and then go from there. However, now that you’re in front of it, you somewhat hope he’s not there. Your palms are growing clammy and your throat feels fuzzy.

“Here goes nothing,” you tell yourself, reaching up and rapping on the door.

For a moment, nothing happens. Perhaps Lady Luck has decided to spare some mercy on you, after all. Releasing a pent-up breath you didn’t know you were even holding, you prepare to step back and walk away, but then a muffled come in sounds through the door.

Oh, shit.

You wince as your cowardice floods you with a renewed force. There’s no way you can just leave now, not if you want Professor Bakugou potentially chasing you down. Taking in a deep breath, you turn the brass knob and poke your head inside. “Uh, Professor Bakugou?”

Oh, shit.

There he is, sitting behind an oak desk, hunched down over a stack of papers. He holds up a single finger, a signal for you to give him a moment. Immediately, your eyes skim over his exposed forearms, skim over the tight black turtleneck that fits him like a glove. Rolled sleeves, watch on wrist, and a pair of glasses perched on his nose, he’s just dripping with classy sexiness.

The steady tick tock, tick tock fills the otherwise silent room. It grates on your already wired nerves, mocks you for just standing there, waiting. You can’t help but glance at its face – 5:49. It’s already dark out, winter’s everlasting darkness sapping the Earth’s light. Stepping fully inside the room, you gently shut the door behind you, not wanting to interrupt his train of thought.

After another moment or so, he finally clicks his pen closed, tosses it onto the desk, and leans back in his chair. “Oi – what do you want?”

Removing your notebook from underneath your arm, you hold it out for him to take. “I was… I was wondering if you could explain how to work out this problem?”

Quirking an eyebrow, Professor Bakugou sits upright and glances at what you’ve written. “We discussed this during the study session on Friday.” His eyes dart up to yours. “I’m surprised you weren’t there.”

Is he singling you out right now? It feels like he’s singling you out right now. But wait, doesn’t that also mean that he noticed you not being there? He’s just saying that to say it, right? …Right?

“There was a lot on my mind,” you say softly.

Professor Bakugou sighs. “Alright, come here.” Maybe it’s the gruffness of his voice, but the simple command nearly has you whimpering on the spot. Jesus, you need to get your act together!

“Of course, sir,” you reply, the title subconsciously rolling off your tongue. Skirting around the desk, you come to his side, unaware of him shifting in his seat.

“It’s really not that hard if you put your damned brain to use,” he grunts, picking his pen back up. You notice how the tendons in his hand flex with the subtle movement; actually, now that you’re up close in personal, you can clearly see the veins racing up his forearms, the sheen of blond hairs.

Warmth seems to radiate off of him, just like how Mina said. You wonder if he gets hot easily, or if that’s just the way he is. Either way, you shimmy the slightest bit closer to him, eager to ward off the chill that still clings to you from the outside. He goes into great detail about how to go through each step surrounding the problem; you lean over his shoulder as he goes through the steps, the heat emanating from his skin drawing you in more and more. With each breath, the scent of caramel floods your senses. You’re almost half tempted to press your nose to his nape and get a better smell, but that’d just be creepy. Plus, even if you did that, Professor Bakugou could probably pick you up and literally throw you out of his office.

Still, despite knowing the risk, your mind takes off, just like it usually does whenever you’re in his presence. It would just be so easy to squeeze his thick arms, to run your fingers through his thick blonde hair. Maybe you could push the collar of his turtleneck down, expose his neck and bite the pulse. It’s almost ridiculous just how big he is, how easily he could overpower you. A familiar warmth floods your system, encasing your insides and clutching onto your heart. This is bad – very, very bad.

“Oi, what the hell are you staring at?” Professor Bakugou barks.

Snapping yourself back to attention, you notice him staring at you, his glasses now off his handsome face. If possible, he’s even more attractive up close; thick lashes, full lips, a slight gleam in his eyes that demand power and control. He almost looks entirely different like this, face lax instead of fixed with a scowl. Good lord, you really are whipped for him.

“Oh, um, sorry,” you ramble, eyes going wide. “It’s just that your hair looks really… fluffy…?”

“…Hah?”

You quickly avert your eyes. “Nevermind…”

“You know,” Professor Bakugou starts, voice low, “you stare at me a lot during class, too. You’re not very subtle.”

You wince at his words. “I… I’m not sure what you’re talking about-“

Rolling his eyes, he scoffs and tosses down his pen. “You’re not majoring in theatre, are you? Because you suck at acting.” He flashes you a cocky smirk when you look back to him. “Just admit it – you like what you see, don’t ya? Can’t say I blame you.”

Okay, wow, cocky much. Yeah, sure, he’s an absolute babe, but wouldn’t you think he’d be a bit more… modest?

Now it’s your turn to scoff. “Didn’t know my math professor thought so highly of himself.”

“Tch. Looks like you got a damn mouth on you, after all. Well, if you’re done undressing me with your eyes, do you want to learn how to do this problem or not? I don’t like repeating myself, but I’ll let it slide just this once since I like you.”

Wait, wait, hold up. Did he just say he likes you?

“You’re a good student,” Professor Bakugou continues. “Even if you do focus on me more than my lecture.”

Is this how the conversation was supposed to play out? Because damn you’re nearly shaking, and you still have your coat on. He knows too much, dammit. He’s known this entire time and he’s playing you.

“And yet you could’ve easily told me to stop,” you shoot right back, sick of being prosecuted like this. Sure, it might be a bad idea to pick a fight with a teacher, but this is outside of classroom hours; and, frankly, he can kiss your ass. Crude demeanor or not, you’re not about to let this man push you around.

“Who said I wanted you to stop?”

No. There’s no way he just said that. This big-headed narcissist is relishing in this, isn’t he? Bastard.

“Hate to break it to you, Professor, but almost everyone stares at you like that,” you tell him. You realize you just admitted it to the accusation, but there’s no point in defending it anymore.

“Like I give a shit about the others? Really? You’re gonna talk about them?” He scoffs his amusement and leans back in his chair, thick arms crossing over his chest. “Did you come here to ask me questions about the exam or did you just want to be with me all by yourself?”

You hesitate. Is that really the reason you came here tonight? The whole way here you debated this yourself, Mina’s words circling around your head. No, you’re smarter than this. It’s a bad idea to get involved with a teacher – it’s wrong.

“I’m not going to lie or deny the truth,” Professor Bakugou continues, his voice dropping to an uncharacteristically low pitch. “I’m also not stupid. You’re just as scared as me, aren’t you? Of the repercussions.”

Your mouth falls agape. What is he going on about…?

Slowly, Professor Bakugou sits back up, his face getting dangerously close to yours. Hot breath fans over the bottom half of your face. His eyes are heavily lidded, his lashes kissing his cheeks. “I’m not going to force anything on you,” he murmurs. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

Oh my god.

Unable to resist the close proximity anymore, you shoot forward, your hands landing on the arms of the chair; Professor Bakugou’s lips are softer than you anticipated, but in no way is he gentle. Right away he’s clutching the back of your neck, dragging you forward so you’re settled on his lap. The arms of the chair pinch into your thighs at the tight fit, but you could care less. You’re on Professor Bakugou’s lap, you have his tongue in your mouth, his hands landing on your ass and kneading the flesh.

“Fuck, I’ve been wanting to do this forever,” he growls, his hands slipping under your shirt and gliding over your lower back. You arch into his touch, a breathless moan slipping past your lips.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” you pant.

“I know.”

Fuck, it’s all so good, his tongue licking the inside of your mouth and hands unbuttoning your jeans. A startled noise erupts from your throat as a large hand slides into the front of your pants, cupping your crotch. You buck into his touch, all sense dissipating from your thoughts as you fervently grind into his heated palm. There’s a clutter of paper and office supplies as they hit the floor. Before you know it, you’re rising from the chair, your ass landing on the wooden desk instead.

“Fuck, you’re so fucking hot,” Professor Bakugou grits. Your ass is barely on the desk by the time he’s done dragging you forward, your jeans aggressively getting yanked off, your underwear following suit. Your thighs instinctively snap shut at the cold air making contact with your bared skin, but strong hands pry them apart, fingertips kneading into the flesh. “I wanna make you cum with my tongue.”

“Wai- Ah! Fuck!” you cry out, your fingers clutching onto the edge of the desk as his head ducks down, his mouth latching onto your sex. Until now, you weren’t even aware that you were dripping with arousal. Sinful noises spill from between your legs as Professor Bakugou fucks you with his mouth, his lips wrapping around your most sensitive parts.

“God, you’re such a slut.”

Smack.

You cry out as he brings a hand down on the innermost part of your thigh; your nerves quake, your blood pumps wildly through your veins. Again, he slaps your thigh, a growl tearing itself from his chest as he looks up, his eyes catching yours.

“Say it.”

Smack.

“I – I’m a slut,” you babble, tongue feeling heavy in your mouth.

Smack.

“What was that?”

“I said I’m a slut!” you exclaim, voice cracking.

“I expect you to refer to me properly,” he says darkly, his pupils dilating to the point where you could barely see his irises. “Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

A single smirk is thrown your way before his mouth is back on you, his tongue lapping up your arousal. His moves are quick, sensual. It’s clear he’s experienced, and you don’t blame him. Just look at him for Christ’s sake. The man is basically sex on legs, all nicely wrapped up in a turtleneck sweater and a simple pair of slacks. The pleasure only heightens as his fingers come into play, prodding at your hole; the tips just barely push past the muscle, leaving you moaning even louder and clutching harder on the desk. Your fingernails scratch the surface, the lacquer coming off.

“Tasty little brat, aren’t ya?” he drawls. Your entire body jolts as he spits on your sex. “I could get used to doing this.”

“Please, sir,” you plead, desperation filling your voice. You want his mouth back on you. You want to cum. “Please, it feels so good…”

Professor Bakugou clicks his tongue. “Shit, you’re even obedient. How nice.” He redoubles his efforts, then, wet noises filling the room along with your heavy breathing.

“Shit, shit, oh my god,” you babble, your body tensing. Still, his tongue digs in just right and there goes your sanity, flying out the window as you cum.

A deep chuckle fills your ears as Professor Bakugou sucks it down; drawing away, he flashes you his tongue, your arousal coating his tongue before he makes a show of swallowing the last bit of it. Wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand, he draws to a stand. The tent in his slacks is obvious, the front of it darker than the rest. Your insides squeeze around nothing, the idea of making him get like that making you feel hotter than before.

You’re hypnotized as he pulls his hands away. His movements are slow and methodical, the clink of his belt echoing throughout the room. Swallowing thickly, you bite your lip as he leisurely undoes his belt and slacks. Blood rushes through your ears, your mind a complete mess. You feel dizzy with want, with the need to sink your teeth into the swell of his pectoral, to claw the plains of his back.

All the air is sucked from your lungs when he finally pulls his cock out, the head flushed a deep red. Your eyes trail over the prominent veins, the fat bead of precum pushing its way out the tip. Fuck, he’s huge, both in length and girth. Whoever told Mina that he was big wasn’t lying. Your legs subconsciously spread even wider, a silent plead for him to fill you up and fuck you raw.

“Tell me you want this,” he husks. He does the honor of unzipping your coat and slipping it off your shoulders before easing you onto your back. The cold from the wood permeates through your shirt, brings a new wave of goosebumps to your flesh.

“Only if you tell me the same thing,” you croak. “Do you fuck all of your students who walk in through that door?”

“No,” Professor Bakugou blatantly says, and you can tell he’s being earnest. “It’s wrong of me to think so, but I’ve been wanting to do something with you since I saw you. It sounds like some sappy bullshit, but it’s the truth. I was too much of a pussy to ask you out for a coffee.”

Something about hearing him confess his feelings to you sets your heart alight. A slight smile tugs at your lips. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Tch. And you’re a fucking brat.”

Hunching over you, a large hand plants itself by your head while the other guides his cock to your awaiting hole. A shaky breath passes through your mouth as he pushes himself in; the stretch burns, his thick cock filling you up in a way that you didn’t even know was possible.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he breathes. “Look at you, sucking in my cock like that. What a good little slut. I bet you’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you? I bet you touched yourself while thinking about this very moment, about me fucking you on my desk like this.” A surprised squeak bursts from your throat as he grabs your legs and throws him over his shoulders, effectively bending you in half. “Gotta fuck you nice and deep, right? Because that’s how a slut like you likes it.”

Like this, with your knees almost touching your ears, the tip of his cock hits your soft spot. A pathetic whimper comes from you as he grinds his cock into you, his eyes carefully watching your erotic expressions, figuring out what you like best.

Before long, he’s fucking into with vigor, his hips moving restlessly. His cock pounds into you mercilessly, the slap of skin against skin mixing with your cries. His mouth is at your throat, teeth skimming your jugular before he latches onto your thundering pulse. You helplessly claw at his shoulders, your fingers bunching into the fabric of his shirt. You’re so fucking full, your velvety walls clamping around his cock selfishly. A blend of curses and yes, fuck, you fucking slut fill your ears; he’s panting hard, a slight chuckle breaking through every once in a while.

“Fucking let everyone know who’s fucking you this good,” he grits. “Jesus, look at the mess you’re making…”

“Professor Bakugou!” you whine. “Your cock feels so good… Fuck, fuck, oh my god, yes-“

“Katsuki. My name is Katsuki.”

Katuski.

The name rolls around your brain like a loose bolt. It settles on the tip of your tongue, just waiting to be let out.

It’s when you cum that you shout his name, your walls tightening around him harshly while your nails dig into the meat of his shoulders. A load groan rumbles from the depths of his chest as he follows suit shortly after, his hips moving erratically as his cum splashes against your insides.

The both of you are sweating, panting messes by the time he finally pulls out. You whimper as you clench around nothing, the emptiness a bit too much to bear. Surprisingly, Professor Bakugou – no, Katsuki – is gentle as he cleans you up, his free hand rubbing your side. Swallowing your pride, you clear your throat.

His eyes flick up, land on yours. “What.”

“Do you…” You worry your bottom lip. “Do you want to get coffee sometime?”

Katsuki snorts. “Wow, got a real fucking charmer here, don’t I? How about you come to my place instead and I make you a proper dinner. You didn’t eat yet, did you?”

As if on cue, your stomach growls. Well, you did deny Mina’s offer for dinner, after all. You smile nervously and give him a shrug.

Chest swelling (with pride, you assume), Katsuki flashes you a cocky smile. “I’m a damn good cook, brat. I’ll cook a meal that will have you weak in the knees.”

“Maybe… Maybe you could finally show me how to do that problem?” you offer.

He rolls his eyes. “Will you finally pay attention this time or will I have to pound it into your brain?”

[idrawstuffidk]

Dereliquit Deum (a Creepypasta)

Oh boy, I don't really know where to begin with this, honestly I didn't think I'd ever be able to do this for a long time, but it's been 20 years, and I think I'm safe. I hope I'm safe. Anyway, my name is Micheal, age 35, and this is a story about my childhood “friend”. It all started when I was 5 years old, or at least, that's when I remember it starting. My mom told me it started more, when I was 2, but I haven't talked to her in 10 years so I don't remember the specifics. Wow, that sounded assholish of me. just, let me explain, and no, she isn't dead. According to my mom, when I was 2 I would stare at the fireplace, and I just wouldn't stop no matter what they did. They'd try to get me to move but i’d just sit there, cross legged, staring at the fireplace. Sometimes I would turn my head a bit in confusion, my parents eventually got used to it, until I turned three. When I was three, my mom claimed she’d see me at the fireplace on the last day of every month, just before midnight, just staring. The entire year she was scared by this but, again, got used to finding me and bringing me back to my bed. It wasn't until the last night of December, when we were celebrating New Years, that I burst into tears. My mom asked me what was wrong and, according to her, I asked her “why didn't you save the little girl, mommy? She’s scared.” My mom was, naturally, terrified and confused, but apparently after a few minutes I calmed down. my mom said she’d never forget what I said next. I looked up at the ceiling and said “it's ok now mommy, she’s safe in the light”. My mom was obviously freaking out over her devil child, but my dad told her that it was ok, because I'd just seen a soul ascend into heaven (which wasn't really wrong) and that it was late so I had to go to sleep anyway. My mom was kind of comforted by that, and for two years, nothing happened. When I was five, it got worse. Much much worse. I was sleeping on the couch, since my room was under renovations and my bed had been disassembled (I needed a bigger one). When I heard whispering coming from the fireplace. I was still young and didn't really assess the danger of the situation, as well as that, I was half asleep and not very scared in the moment, so I looked up. There. Standing in front of the fireplace, she was staring right back at me. To give you an idea of how she looked, she was tall, probably 7 feet, her head almost touched the ceiling, she had greasy, straight black hair that reached her shoulders, and a single lock of white hair in the front that was longer than the rest. She had a white bowling hat with a silver ribbon on it that looked like it would fall off at any second, a white sweater overtop of a black button up with a white bow tie, and a black leather corset overtop of all that. She had a black pleated skirt that almost reached her knees and black and white striped leggings, ending in silver shoes. As well as this, she had a huge black and white bi-coloured umbrella with a silver handle that was behind her. But her face, her face is what stood out to me. Porcelain pale skin and 3 silver diamond marks on her face, one on the bridge of her nose, and one under each of her eyes, going along her cheeks. Her eyes were a light, dull blue that stood out against all, the blacks and whites. There wasn't any blush on her face, only one solid colour throughout. Like an amateurly painted porcelain doll. She looked human, but something was off. Like she was either trying so hard to look human that she did something wrong, or she wasn't trying hard enough. She looked at me and smiled, the smile looked wrong, just because it was too perfect, fixed, like a doll’s. She looked at me and whispered again, this time I could properly hear what she said. “Dereliquit Deum”. She asked me for permission to stay, and I, being the tired little kid I was, just sleepily nodded and said “ok” before falling back asleep. For the next few days she followed me from a distance, silently when I was with other people. But when I was alone she'd be much closer and talk more. and I didn't really mind for some odd reason. I did, however, pick up on a few of her behaviours. She always seemed to stand on her tiptoes, and I don't recall her ever really walking, just being there when I looked behind me. As well as this, her umbrella was always leaning against her but I don't think I ever saw her pick it up. She told me a lot of things, and I'd always remember chatting with her, but not what was said as far as “small talk” goes. I’d only remember specific facts and a few key phrases. I think those were the things she wanted me to remember. One of those phrases were “Dereliquit Deum”. She said it a lot, and I never asked her what it meant. I asked her what her name was after, probably, a week of her following me around. She looked at me, smiled that fixed smile of hers and responded “Relicta Per Deus” (and I'm guessing how that is spelled) I always called her “Reli”. Reli would follow me around day after day, and had followed me around for about a month when she said her first words to me while I was not at home, I don't remember what she said, but I know she distracted me just long enough to stop me from crossing the street, where I would have died as a cement truck ran its red, and would have killed me. when I told my mom (who had, up until the point, believed Reli was just my imaginary friend) she told me that maybe Reli was my guardian angel, sent to protect me, and the words I couldn't remember was because she was speaking in an angelic language I was incapable of comprehending. And for a long time I believed it. She couldn't have been more wrong. After about a year of having her around, she started to say different things to me. I’d go about my day and suddenly my mom would be shouting at me to stop, i’d look down and a knife would be in my hand or my hand would be inches from the window cleaner. I would have no memory of even reaching for these, or going to the room they were in at all, it was as if I had blacked out entirely. And Reli would be silently standing a few feet away. Not stopping me, just… looking disappointed. This went on until my mom was sure I was being possessed, and brought in a priest to cleanse the house. Weird thing was, Reli was nowhere in sight this whole time, but the priest did say he sensed something malevolent by the fireplace. He couldn't sense a demon, but he did lead a prayer and told us that it was all he could do. So the blackouts continued for a little while longer, until I was about 7 years old. Then they suddenly stopped. I do remember sometimes telling Reli rings like “but that's really bad” and “no! That's dangerous!” But I never remembered what she said before that. It seemed to me like Reli was trying to get me to kill myself, but eventually I got old enough to not fall for her tricks, but i’ll never be sure. That was when Reli started getting much more violent in he attempts. I remember one occasion in particular, I was walking to my room following dinner, and I could hear Reli’s breathing behind me. Then I heard a loud crash and jumped out of the way. The bookshelf in the hall had fallen over and had nearly crushed me. I'm positive Reli pushed it, and even at the time I was pretty sure she did, though I wasn't as sure as I am now. That was just one of the many instances I have of Reli trying to kill me, I'm sure I could find more if I think hard, but I really really don't want to. It continued until I was 10, then, it stopped. Reli started to show up less and less, she’d only show up to try and kill me, but her attempts became more and more clumsy and dejected, like she knew she had already lost, but was hoping by some miracle she would win. Eventually I stopped seeing her altogether. It wasn't until we were moving out when I was 12 or 13 that I saw Reli for the last time. I was exiting my room with my last bag, and she was waiting for me. I would have run, hell, I wanted to run, but I didn't. She looked sad, and as terrified as I was, I didn't think she would hurt me. She knew she had lost, I doubted she would try again. She just looked like she had something to say. “Just ask your mother, she’ll tell you everything. One day” was all she said, and then she turned to walk away, whispering for one last time “Derelequit Deum” And with that, she disappeared in a blink of an eye. I ran as fast as I could to get out of the house, terrified as you can imagine, and she didn't follow me. I never saw her again. But that isn't the end of the story. I was so afraid that I didn't think to ask my mom about anything, but I never forgot those words, I guess she just really wanted me to remember them. When I was 25 I had been in college for a bit of time, and I was taking a class on Latin for my specific major, the professor was reading out of a Latin text to use as an example for the grammar used, when they used to term “Dereliquit Deum”, I asked what that meant since we hadn't learned it, and they told me it meant “God left”. That's what reminded me of all of this, so I asked the professor at the end of the lecture what “Relicta Per Deus” means. They were confused, but told me it means “abandoned by God” Every day, she would tell me that God left, when I asked what he name was, she said she was abandoned by God. At this point I decided enough time has passed and I had to ask my mom about Reli. She refused to say anything at first and we ended up having a screaming match over the phone but eventually, she cracked. I don't think I'll ever forget what she said. “When I was only 12, my 10 year old sister, Susanna, fell into the fire on New Year's Day and died. I begged her not to leave me, it wasn't until I knew that you saw her that I realized she was still there, and told her she could go. The demonic… thing that's followed you around your entire early life, I'm so sorry, it was my fault she targeted you, the only reason I saved you all those times was because I was watching you like a hawk, knowing it was there. I didn't say anything, I didn't try to get rid of her because I was scared she would hurt me too, I'm so sorry” Then she hung up, to be fair, the only reason I know the whole thing was because my calls are recorded, I listened to the recording probably 20 times because I was so shocked. Still, I was confused. So she knew she was there but, how was this all her fault? Sure, I was kind of angry she didn't try to get rid of it but I still didn't know what it was, or what that little girl, my aunt, I guess, had anything to do with this. Confused, I composed a post, describing the situation, what happened, what she looked like, and everything, and posted it, Asking if she matched up with maybe some sort of myth or legend from another culture. Wondering if there were other people who might know more about her. It didn't take long to get a response. I'm just going to copy and paste the text she sent me here, I think she summed up the gist of it. Micheal- From your description I can only imagine that “Relicta” is a Solum, it's a creature from Latin origin that remains a myth in some Latin based cultures. They’re dark creatures that are born when a child’s soul ascends to heaven. They represent the evil in the dead child, that stays on earth, while the soul lives on. They are eternally dead and hollow, incapable of positive emotion, they only feel cold, alone, and spite. Solum’s stay in the area that the child died, they are tied to that area and cannot leave unless they have tied themselves to another child. The reason for this? They want to kill all the children in the area to create more of their kind, so they aren't alone. They feel as though God has betrayed or abandoned them, and because they cannot ascend to heaven, they try to make more of their kind so they can suffer as well. This is why they are sometimes confused as guardian angels, because they want the children to die where they are, not anywhere else, because then the new Solum will not exist in the same area as they do. I'm going to tell you this because I do not believe you are 100% safe now, Solum’s can shapeshift, they do not have a solid form, they can appear as an animal, a family member, even a bug on the wall, they can always be there, but they're especially good at hiding. Children above the age of 10 typically do not create Solum’s, and adults definitely do not, so while you might think you are safe now, you have to understand, Solum's are vengeful, spiteful creatures. Even if they know that they won't gain a companion, they sometimes seek out revenge on the ones that escaped them. Just because you aren't in that house anymore doesn't mean that she hasn't tied herself to you, she could still be lurking, waiting to strike. At any moment. Remember this, if you ever do see her, Solum’s are weak creatures, they can inflict a lot of damage but can't take much themselves, especially if it is using the thing that killed the child that created them, if you see her, I suggest using a lighter or match to fend her off. I wish I could tell you more, but that's all I know. Regards, I edited out her name to protect her privacy, but yeah, that's what she said. I would say that's the end of the story, but it isn't. A few nights ago I had a dream about Reli, she was screaming at me, surrounded by flames, begging for me to help her. I ran to her, I don't know why, and grabbed her hand. She never touched me as a child, just stood by me. She was cold and clammy, like a dead person. I woke up in a cold sweat and, for whatever reason, decided I had to check on my childhood house. So, at 4 in the morning, I drove over 3 hours to my childhood house. Don't ask me why, I don't know. I just felt like I had to. But when I arrived at the property I was stopped by a policeman. He asked me what I was doing, so I told him I used to live here and was sent to retrieve some things left in the house (complete lie, I know), He apologized and told me that the house had burned down, no discernible cause, at about 3:00am. I convinced myself it was just a coincidence, and managed to have a small chat with the policeman, that's when he told me something very very odd. He said that they heard a woman screaming from inside the house, despite the fact that all the family was outside. They thought it was an intruder so they sent in Firefighters to get her out. But while they were searching for her, she suddenly stopped screaming. No body was found. I asked him what time she stopped screaming. He said a little before 4:00am. I don't know why, but I couldn't bring myself to drive home that morning, I stayed in my childhood town all day and a motel at night, finally taking all the back roads home in the morning. I’m sure it was just a coincidence, I know I should be happy, she’s probably dead, or too weak to hurt anyone now. But I still can't stop thinking about how her clammy hand felt in mine, how she stopped screaming the second we made contact, how the wind behind me sounds so much like breathing. How when I saw the remains of that house I was so sure I could see an umbrella in the rubble. I'm sure it's nothing, but my brain keeps telling me she isn’t dead. Relicta can’t be dead. And if she isn't attached to that house anymore, well, that family didn't have any children.

[pollyperks]

Fingers Down Pages, Eyes Along Words

a little Lan WanJi centered fic (with bonus wangxian) I dabbled with because I love him and that’s pretty much all my reasoning  (Ao3 link)

Lan WangJi has always known he is a seeker of knowledge. From childhood to teenage years to adulthood, he devours every bit of information he can get his hands on like it’s food and water, and for a long time, he wonders why. Is it a need to prove himself? By his early teens he is already a skilled cultivator far beyond his years and his skill on the guqin is nearly unsurpassable. And he has proven himself to his sect, his clan, his uncle, his brother. He is never quite sure what his father thinks of him, isn’t sure whether when his father looks at him if he truly sees him instead of the ghost of his mother, and so for a while, he thinks he continues to learn in order to become a son in the eyes of his father instead of just a memory.

But perhaps the truth is simply that the library has become his sanctuary, and the manuscripts his best companions. Besides his brother, Lan WangJi has just never quite grasped the idea of talking with others, and even Lan XiChen jokes about how much he has to read by Lan WangJi’s eyes and the set of his mouth for he so very rarely speaks. But the other disciples are so loud and so frivolous, and the manuscripts in the library are always there. They teach in quiet, private lectures, never chide, always allow him the time to think and explore the new ideas they plant in his head. Whether it’s books of cultivation or poetry, he soaks it up, and thinks that perhaps he learns because the knowledge is there to be found.

Of course, his quiet contemplation is broken by the noisy disciple from the Yunmeng Jiang sect who teases and whines and laughs and smiles in a way not many people have smiled at Lan WangJi before. They tend to be thrown off by the fact he doesn’t smile back, but not this Wei WuXian. He seems to have an endless supply of laughter and energy and Lan WangJi has not applied himself enough to the study of humans to realize how much a smile could hide, perhaps even more than a face of stone.

Lan WangJi cannot seem to learn Wei WuXian, and that is frustrating. If only he was a book, then Lan WangJi could run his fingers down the pages and trace along the ink, discover the difference between the variations of his smiles, know when he is teasing and when he is sincere. Mostly he is teasing, Lan WangJi decides.

If he could run his fingers along the soft skin of Wei WuXian’s cheek, maybe he could learn to read his smile, trace his eyes and nose and ears, follow ink-black hair in the messy array to the very end in attempts to gain some insight. But the thought makes his ears burn and he lies awake too long at night after curfew desperately trying not to think about it. Wei WuXian leaves the Cloud Recesses not too soon after, but his memory lingers in the library and Lan WangJi wishes one of his books could give him answers on how to banish it.

Wei WuXian, he decides in the following years, is an annoyance. The time apart had softened his memory of just how obnoxious Wei WuXian could be, and he knows he himself is all too easily read when his forehead ribbon slips away in Wei WuXian’s fingers. Still, he is not as angry as he thought he was, Lan WangJi thinks that night, as he checks for the twentieth time the ribbon knot is secure. And then he frowns, because since when did his own feelings become so complicated?

Just what is it about Wei WuXian?

He has always been a seeker of knowledge, but continuing along this path scares him. He plays the guqin instead and lets his feelings out in the soft plucking of strings. This is no Inquiry. Merely his own heart, strung out in a song.

When the Wen sect comes calling, Lan WangJi stands before the library and tries to protect his sanctuary, his friends and his teachers, the place that is truly his, but all he gets for it is a broken leg and ash in his eyes as the Cloud Recesses burn. Although he had already poured over every manuscript in the library at least twice, the grief in his chest is so heavy and just gets heavier and heavier as he watches his father dying and prays his brother comes home safe one day.

He has never felt so lost.

There is a certain comfort in seeing Wei WuXian is just as annoying and frivolous as always. Although, as Lan WangJi watches Wei WeXian flatter the girls as Wen Chao orders them all about, the grief in his stomach is pushed aside, just slightly, by some other feeling he doesn’t recognize because he’s never had need of it before. He truly can’t call himself a scholar anymore, because it doesn’t seem he knows anything at all.

Terror. Terror he recognizes. And frustration. Trapped in the cave of the Tortoise of Carnage, he feels the terror run screaming through his veins, and then the frustration when Wei WuXian just smiles and Lan WangJi isn’t able to read his smile at all. Doesn’t he get…? Doesn’t he know…?

How could he? Even Lan WangJi doesn’t know his own feelings. Why does he expect Wei WuXian—Wei Ying—to understand what he himself cannot?

All he can do is play a melody that is his heart on a string, and hope that Wei Ying can understand, even if just a little bit, how much Lan WangJi needs him to be alive. Not necessarily beside him, although that has become a consuming thought in Lan WangJi’s mind, but just safe and alive and out bothering the world in the way Wei Ying should be. When they are finally rescued from the cave of the Tortoise of Carnage, Wei Ying has long closed his eyes, and Lan WangJi sat beside him, hand on his chest just short of his injury, constantly feeling for the thud of his heart.

Is this how his father felt, he wonders, when he brought his mother back to live in the Cloud Recesses? Knowing that they would never be a proper married couple, but desperate to simply protect her life?

If that is the case, Lan WangJi is brilliantly aware of how his heart is saying.

His father dies. His brother is still missing. And Lotus Pier burns.

Wei Ying vanishes from the world.

Lan WangJi seeks knowledge. His fingers grow sore from playing Inquiry, but he can never find his answer. Where is Wei Ying? Where has he gone, so completely without a trace?

When Lan WangJi finds him, he wishes he could have brought Wei Ying back safe to the Cloud Recesses. Even if he had to keep him in a small cabin for the rest of their lives, hidden far back in the forest, it would be better than seeing the pain reflected in Wei Ying’s eyes, his smile finally cracked open and showing all the suffering inside.

Suddenly, knowledge is something Lan WangJi wishes he could abandon altogether. He does not wish to watch this war and know it is Wei Ying bringing up the rear, carnage and chaos and everything that did not exist in the teasing boy in the library pavillion. Why couldn’t those days have stretched on forever? What Lan WangJi wouldn’t do to bring them back.

When he speaks with Wei Ying now, he can tell that something has changed. Something more than the addition of Chenqing, something more fundamental, but he cannot figure out what it is because Wei Ying no longer allows himself to be read as he spirals further and further out of reach, out of control.

Lan WangJi tries to read him anyway. Pins Wei Ying’s hands and tastes his mouth and wonders if now he could run his fingers along the skin of Wei Ying’s face like the pages of a manuscript, but he wouldn’t find the same smile, his eyes are covered by the blindfold, and the ink-black hair always smells of the corpses he animates around him as he goes. And Lan WangJi still wants more, because there is not a version of Wei Ying he hasn’t yearned for, in some way or another.

He loves him, but he knows that Wei Ying will never be his, and he knows that Wei Ying is also already lost. He steals his one bitter kiss and then wishes he’d never had that moment of knowing what it felt like to have what he wanted.

The day wandering around Yiling is the same sort of true torture, but this time he actively seeks it out. He sits across from Wei Ying and studies the exhaustion written into the shadows of his face, the tangles of his hair, the slope of his shoulders. The Yiling Patriarch is pushing himself too far and the world is pushing back, and Lan WangJi doubts it will be Wei Ying who breaks first. Too much has happened too fast, and Lan WangJi can read this much at least—during the Sunshot Campaign, Wei Ying was their truest weapon, and now that it is over, the cultivation sects know that what he did to the Wens, Wei Ying could do to any of them. They think of him as a mad dog who is useful as long as pointed at the right person but is now off the leash. And Wei Ying doesn’t care to correct their perception. If Lan WangJi was a vocal person, maybe he would scream at the sect leaders to understand, to know that Wei Ying has only ever wanted to protect those who needed it and he wears the brand of the Wen clan as an eternal mark of that conviction. Those living under his protection now are no threat either. The child wrapped around Lan WangJi’s leg is proof enough. But Lan WangJi is not a vocal person. He sees the Yiling Patriarch return Wen Ning’s consciousness and feels chilled through at the idea Wei Ying has come so close to reversing death itself. With word of this, the world will just press harder and harder, terrified of what Wei Ying might set his mind to next, and Lan WangJi can’t see any way to stop it.

In the end, he can only try to stop it by placing himself between Wei Ying and the world. He is the only one still willing to stand there, alone and exhausted and hopeless. He loves Wei Ying, reads it in his heart, and tries to force the life back into him after the battle at the Nightless City, ignores it every time Wei Ying tells him to leave. He will not leave. He will not let Wei Ying be lost to him again. He speaks more sentences in a row than he ever has in his life, one endless whisper punctuated by Wei Ying weakly ordering him to leave, whispers about his mother and his father and his friends found in the manuscripts, about how he never hated Wei Ying the way people seemed to think he did, about how he raised the rabbits in Wei Ying’s absence, about how he was not so much angry as scared when his forehead ribbon came loose in Wei Ying’s hand, about how it felt to lose his father, about how it felt to lose Wei Ying, about how he loves him, how he will stay, how he will protect Wei Ying this time and the Wen clan in Yiling, how Wei Ying should just stop talking and focus on healing, except Wei Ying has never been able to stop talking and Lan WangJi wouldn’t want to change that. Because he loves the Wei Ying of the past, he loves him now, and he wouldn’t change anything about that. Not a thing.

There is just him between Wei Ying and the world, but in the end, he isn’t strong enough. He breaks, and his body breaks too—thirty-three whiplashes—but it’s nothing to the pain in his chest when he learns the Yiling Patriarch has died. He rushes to Burial Mound but there is nothing. Nothing. No smile bursting with laughter or bursting with pain. No brush of black robes or stray stands of black hair across tired eyes. Nobody calling his name.

The fact that Wei WuXian is gone from him doesn’t sink in as reality until he finds A-Yuan hidden in the tree, feverish and eyes puffy from crying. The child can’t even speak, just stares blankly when Lan WangJi asks him where Brother Wei is. Because Brother Wei is gone. He can’t be saved.

He stopped being able to be saved years ago.

Lan WangJi sits with A-Yuan in his lap and feels a few hot tears drip from his chin. Here is the only place he’ll be able to properly mourn. No one in the Cloud Recesses could possibly understand, as evidenced by the thirty-three healing scars on his back.

After maybe an hour of allowing himself to cry, Lan WangJi wipes his eyes and takes A-Yuan back to Gusu.

That night, he takes the Guqin out and plays Inquiry. Attempts to know. Attempts to seek.

Attempts to seek for thirteen years.

The flute melody is crude, the most you could expect from an instrument created spur of the moment, but Lan WangJi—HanGuang-Jun—hears the the sound of his heart on a string and knows it immediately. He catches the wrist of the young man who plays, and know it is Wei WuXian, the Yiling Patriarch, who gazes back at him.

Thirteen years shrink down to a single instant as Lan WangJi holds Wei WuXian firm and vows—silently, because he is a silent person—to never lose Wei Ying again.

It is odd, somedays, to reconcile his memories of the Wei Ying he fell in love with and the young man who sleeps tucked in his arms. Sometimes the two images layer on top of each other and the memory of a voice blends with the one he actually hears, and it takes a moment for the reality to sink in anew—that Wei Ying came back to him. Somewhat shorter, with a rounder face than Lan WangJi remembers, but still the same. In the dawn light that plays in dapples across the bed, Lan WangJi runs his fingers down the smooth page of Wei Ying’s cheek. He reads the sleepy and content smile, traces his eyes and nose and ears, and then follows messy hair, still ink-black, to the very tips. He buries his own nose in the tumbled tresses and smells soap and hints of lavender, the smell of him, the smell of home.

He reads Wei Ying slow and careful and devours every bit of information he can gather.

When Wei Ying wakes an hour later and stretches and smiles and tugs on Lan WangJi’s shoulders until he gives him the kiss he desires, Lan WangJi shuts his eyes and tries to memorize this kiss, as he has tried to memorize each and every one of them, because he has always been a seeker of knowledge and because, above all, he is still learning of this thing called happiness.

[sinfully-romione]

Time Heals

Category: Greed

Description: “He knew he was a horrible, greedy git. He should’ve been more than satisfied to get any little scraps of her time, but he truly couldn’t help himself.”

Rating: T

One-shot (2275 words)

Most people underestimated Ron Weasley, but today he felt like a ruddy genius. He couldn’t take credit for the entire situation- it wasn’t like it was his idea to go and get himself near poisoned to death. Not the he might not have tried something that desperate- if he’d known how it would’ve turned out. Aside from a very sore throat and some guilt for making his family worry, being poisoned hadn’t been all that bad. Really there had been all kinds of advantages: he got to have loads of ice cream (for medicinal reasons of course), stay in bed all day, miss classes, avoid certain people…have Hermione all to himself. There, he’d went and thought it right out loud. Well, it wasn’t like he could deny it anymore, not to himself, anyway. He doubted he was doing a good job of keeping it from anyone at all, including her.

When he first woke up to find her: a red-nosed, puffy-eyed vision of pure beauty, he couldn’t quite convince himself that she was really there. But then she’d started prattling along faster than a pack of Cornish pixies after a shot of treacle, and he knew it was real He could only make out bits of what she’d said, he’d like to blame it on the after-effects of his physical trauma, but the truth was that he was just so relieved to find her looking at him and talking to him without a trace of anger that all his energy went into soaking up every last bit of it. At one point he did make out a word, it was Sorry. He froze. Hermione hated to apologize, even more than he did. For months he had fantasized about a scenario much like the one playing out in front of him: a teary Hermione throwing herself at him, begging him to forgive her for…for…for what exactly. Yeah, those birds had hurt way more than he’d like to admit, but other than that why should she be sorry? For not talking to him? Hell, he’d given her the cold shoulder for a week for a two-year-old hidden snog; could he really blame her for…well, for any of it? Guilt lodged in his throat, harder to swallow than any bezoar. Suddenly he felt the weight of wasted time. He wanted to stop her tears with the perfect words, but neither his addled brain nor his injured throat could supply them, so he did the best he could: gripping her hand, he rasped, “No…M’sorry.”

Instead of stopping her tears, this seemed to produce even more, along with sputterings of “You shouldn’t try talking just yet,” and something his rapidly beating prayed was, “I thought I’d lost you!”

It had hit him then, really, how serious it had been. Not just the poisoning, because in all honesty when you’re used to narrowly escaping death every year “mortal peril” just doesn’t pack quite the same punch anymore, but his estrangement from Hermione. They’d obviously had fights before; they’d even gone for long stretches without talking in the past, so he’d just assumed that this time would be no different.  Even as the weeks stretched on, he had stubbornly held to his belief that sooner or later she would see the error of her ways. It seemed so ridiculous now, why had he been such an arse?  He could’ve died without making it right. Death was not nearly as frightening to him as an eternity without Hermione.

So they had smoothed it over, on the surface, like his mum frosting a chocolate cake, careful to cover any imperfections, never scraping the layers underneath. She visited him often, more often than anyone but Pomfrey knew, but it still wasn’t quite enough. He searched for any reason to encourage her visits: asking her about her parents, his missed prefect duties, Harry’s obsessions, his missed lessons.

In classic Hermione fashion she had taken his missed school-work as her own personal mission. For a day or two he half expected her to make buttons EGG: Educating Gitty Gingers or the Weasley Education Taskforce: WET. He’d almost given himself a heart attack at the thought of a gleaming WET pin on her jumper or worse yet, a WET tshirt stretched across her chest.

Her efforts were met with a ferocity of learning the likes of which she had never seen. However, his overeagerness to curry her favor had nearly backfired on him. A week or so into their tutoring sessions she’d announced, beaming at him, “You’re doing brilliantly! You’ll be caught up in no time at all!”

Shit. That wouldn’t do-not at all. And though he couldn’t stop his chest from puffing up at her praise,  he mentally began preparing for a new phase to his plan. He could not, would not, lose such a solid excuse to have her with him. So, he wasn’t proud to admit it, he began to play thick. It wasn’t as easy as it sounds either…he couldn’t be too obvious about it; he couldn’t have her thinking he was hopeless, but he began to “struggle” an appropriate amount with the new material and “forget” a little of the old. So sorry ‘Ermione, all these potions must be messing with my memory. She was so patient with him, never nagging or becoming frustrated. If he hadn’t known better, he may have thought that she was enjoying it as much as he was.

He knew he was a horrible, greedy git. He should’ve been more than satisfied to get any little scraps of her time, but he truly couldn’t help himself. He figured it would be bad enough anyway, but when you accounted for all the time he’d missed - well, he hadn’t even broken even yet.

It wasn’t just about time either; there was also proximity. At first it had been like bloody Christmas just to have her in the same room, but soon he found, again, that it wasn’t quite good enough. So again he’d taken matters into his own hands, literally moving the chair closer to his bed before she visited, every day a few precious inches closer.

But today he had a new plan-genius really. If it worked, he just might…well, he hadn’t really gotten that far yet.

Checking his watch: first for the time, then for assurance that it was working properly. Really how could the hour before she came be slower than a History of Magic lecture?! He was rewarded with the sound of her coming through the doors. He sat up straighter, clasping his hands together to keep them still.

“Hi,” she crossed, as usual, to stand at the foot of his bed.

“Hi.” Was it even possible that she could look so beautiful? For a moment he wouldn’t open his mouth, afraid that he would ask the question aloud.

“Have you eaten yet?” She held up a small bundle, “I brought you a couple of things in case you were hungry.”

“Brilliant! I did eat a while ago, but I could have a nosh in a bit.” He wasn’t about to waste time eating, not yet anyway.

“Alright. I’ll just put it over here until you’re ready.”

“Thanks.”

Hermione sat in the chair next to his bed, it was so comically close that it must have been difficult to maneuver. She did not, however, make any attempt to move it away even though her shoulder was actually brushing up against his arm.

“I thought we’d start with Potions if that’s alright,” she looked at him hesitantly, “that’s the longest.”

“That’s great!” her quizzical look made him internally reprimand himself: Damnit! Excited for Potions?! That’s not a dead giveaway…nooooo…not all!“But..ummm…I don��t have my book.”

“You don’t? What happened to it?”

“Not sure. Harry mustive grabbed it by mistake when he was here earlier. You know how rattled he is lately.” At least that last part’s not complete rubbish.

“No bother.. We can just share mine.”

She brought the textbook out of her bag, placing it on the side of the bed next to his hip, “Hmmm..that’s not a good angle for you, now is it?”

Ron shook his head in mock sadness, “Not really.” Hermione looked puzzled, trying to find a solution, one that he had sussed out days ago, “What if you, well, you could comeuphere.” He slid to the right and patted the mattress beside him.

“Are you sure?” Her voice was soft and hesitant, and he thought about abandoning his plan for a second, “I don’t want to hurt you.” Hurt him? She was killing him, but he bloody loved it!

“Doubt very seriously that you can take me out when poison, giant spiders, and death eaters couldn’t finish the job.”

“Or the twins.”

The laughter broke from them both, easing the awkwardness as she climbed onto the bed beside him. Over the last week he had cursed the narrowness of it many times, but now he lifted praises to whatever genius had designed them. Honestly, his plan could not have worked better, he thought.

Here they were together, her right side deliciously, agonizingly pressed into his left side. Nothing between them but a couple of thin layers of clothing. He could feel her hair tickle the top of his arm, right where the sleeve ended. When she opened the book and placed in on their adjacent laps may as well be one lap, a singular lap her fingers brushed the top of his outer thigh.  It was perfect. She was as close to him as was altogether decent, he had her sole attention, there were no interruptions: it was everything he had wanted. Inwardly he relished in the moment, careful not to sigh contentedly aloud.

Now he could just sit back and learn the lesson at hand not too quickly, of course. All he had to do was focus on the points in the text that Hermione was talking about. Yep…just focus. Hermione shifted the tiniest bit and her knee her very naked knee peeked out from under her skirt and burrowed itself just above his.  Must be too warm for tights…that must mean…he chanced a peek over the top of the book to confirm his hypothesis: she had indeed slipped off her shoes, leaving her bare feet mere inches from his own.

Suddenly that tiny space between them seemed unbearable. Just a minute ago he had been completely satisfied, but now…he wanted…more. He knew a sudden move would never do, he had to be smart about this. Distraction, that could work.

“So..umm…the Boomslang skin…do you chop it or shred it?”

“That’s actually a great question,” she furrowed her brow and pointed to a spot in the text, “it actually depends on exactly how long you want the potion to last. Shredding it allows for a quicker absorption and therefore it dissipates in the system quicker. Chopping means it is slower to take effect, but longer-lasting.”

Her answer was very thorough, but he heard very little of it. The entirety of his cognitive processes were concentrated on moving his left foot slowly, almost imperceptibly across the cool cotton blanket until it rested just beside, barely touching her own.

“Fascinating,” he hoped his voice sounded much more steady and convincing to her ears than it did to his own. It must have because she gave him a warm smile, giving no hint of pulling away.

“You have to be careful though, when you shred it,” she turned her right hand palm up on top of the book, “it’s very prickly.”

In the middle of her palm, he could just make out three tiny red marks. Laying his side of the book down, he took her hand in both of his. Before any logic could interfere he’d brought the wound close to his face to investigate. Her quick intake of breath stopped him from proceeding with whatever automatic action his body had initiated.

“Does it hurt?” Still holding her hand, he strove to show her the genuineness of his concern for her.

“A little,” she was blinking in that way that meant she was trying not to cry, and he knew that they were talking about something so much more than a classroom mishap. He cursed himself inwardly, fearing that he’d pushed his luck too far when she added softly, “but not as much as it did before.”

“That’s good,” he was relieved to see her smile at him, “just wish I could do something to make it better…especially after all you’ve done to help me.”

“Well I guess there’s no better place for me to be than right here is there?”

He nodded sagely, “There’s not…you should stay as long as possible…just to be safe.” It was a lie, perhaps not as innocent as he wanted to believe; it was anything but safe to have her so close.

“Well, if you think that’s best.”

Hours later, when Madame Pomfrey had forcibly herded Hermione out the door to avoid missing curfew, Ron sat, left still tingling from her touch, smiling like a lunatic. He felt full to the brim with her company, but also oddly empty from her absence. Would there ever be a time when he didn’t crave one more minute? One more smile? One more laugh? One more touch? He wasn’t sure, but somehow he doubted it. With a sigh, he pulled the blankets up already anticipating tomorrow’s visit. Ron Weasley had a brilliant night’s rest, despite the textbook size lump protruding from beneath his mattress.

[bookworm-2692]

8, 14, 17 for the dnd asks!

thank you!!!!

8: what does your dream dice set look like?

hmmm i’m not sure…. definitely blue. probably that etheral yeti one miho sent yesterday that i fell in love with haha they’re so pretty!!!!!

14: what inspired you to make your character?

i guess i’ll go through each of them.

norixius kava, dragonborn paladin (out of the abyss). this was my first one and i had no idea how dnd worked haha at all. in the car on the way to my cousins place, i was driving, and my dad and brother were reading through the books and talking about the races and classes and stuff and explaining to me bc obvi i couldnt read them bc i was driving haha. anyway we got to my cousins place and each of them paired up w the three of us to help make our first characters and we rolled for stats and they asked if i had anything i wanted to play and i was like “idk dragonborn sounds really cool” and they were like thats as good a reason as any, and then they suggested paladin would work well w my stats so i was like sure why not and did it haha. she survived the campaign, to level 11

matilda, human monk (curse of strahd). this was point buy system. i had mentioned seeing a homebrew avatar thing, so one of my cousins mentioned how way of the four elements monk is like the avatar, so i read through it and thought it sounded cool. i took the mobile feat, and went way of open hand instead. in this campaign we had a fight where four characters died outright (three deaths due to natural 1s in the death saves) and only two survived, including matilda. the dm mentioned taking the dead people to another room to discuss what to do and i was like “nah brian and i will just move since we’re the only alive one and theres more of you”. they ended up becoming revernants (idk spelling) but i suggested adding a caveat in place where every time you died as a revernant, you lost 1hp from your max, which we did. we then abandoned this campaign after 4 levels bc my uncle who was dm-ing was having trouble finding the time to read the campaign

jamnugget, gnome fighter (arcane archer) (storm kings thunder). this was rolling stats. one cousin rolled between 13 and 18 for every stat, and after race ability improvements got all 14-18…. so he multiclassed all of them and got to level 12 as one of each class it was a beautiful amalgamation (omg i spelt that correctly first try haha). then someone else rolled three single digit stats but was told he wasnt allowed to reroll so he became a druid for wildshape. he had -2 con, so only adding 3hp per level, starting at 6hp. 3rd level before he got double digits. if you averaged the rolls of these two you got normal stats haha. anyway onto my character. my cousin suggested the arcane archer thing on unearthed arcana so i was like “sure ok”. turns out you only got two magic arrows per rest thing and they werent very good so i hardly used them. the sharpshooter feat was way better. the best part tho was bc we were fighting so many giants, at one point someone cast fly on me, someone else cast greater invisibility on me, someone else gave me bless, so then i went in a chased a giant just shooting him on my own while everyone else was doing something else it was great. i also accidentally succeeded on an intimidation check bc an npc was saying “im sure we could handle a giant” when we asked about that and i was like “ive killed 15 myself” (bc we were keeping tallies on our sheets) and the guy panicked bc was technically in an alliance w them whoops. jamnugget survived the campaign. six of the seven original characters survived to the end, my brother went through four characters

maegrakka, half elf barbarian. we were told to make characters for a quick one shot dungeon thing for when storm kings thunder dm wasnt able to make it. so i made a barbarian bc i decided that was something i hadnt done yet and would be easy to just make (no spells. i have a strong aversion to spell casters). i think shes level 3 now???? every time we play this everyones like “wait whats my character again” bc its so long in between haha

nissa, human rogue 1 monk 2. one shot a friend wanted to dm before he moved to canberra. it was very fun. i made a monk bc i was desperate to play again bc matilda had been abandoned. i added a rogue level for sneak attack damage, w mobile feat, it was great

clover, human fighter 11 or 12, monk 3 or 4. level 15 fight to the death situation. i knew how powerful the arcane archer stuff was so i did it here. monk levels were to give me back up in case i got engaged in melee. i shouldve had some sort of healing that was my downfall. my first character to die bc three of them were ganging up on me!!

meredith, elf wizard (tomb of annihilation). we started off playing as commoners, as servants to this lord guy. so i was a librarian and realised id have to be a wizard dammit. i hated the spell casting part haha. she died. its funny bc my dads character died at first level, then we levelled up. brians character died at second level, then we levelled up. they were also sitting next to each other. i was sitting in the next seat along so was worried i was also gonna die… then my brother took that seat and died instead. so i was like there is definitely a curse. i was in the next seat along, and then one of my cousins. then came a fight where my cousin next to me turned to stone and then i died. turns out he could come back to life so the death seat thing continued. we levelled up to level 4 after my brother and i died in separate sessions in the same location. also my dad and brian died in the same location in separate session. so now theres multiple patterns - theres the “someone needs to die to level up” thing, and the death seat thing, and the two characters dying in the same location in separate sessions thing. w my cousin who got turned to stone, i keep on insisting he stays in the death seat bc either he dies (death seat) or he doesnt (he tricked death w the stone thing so is now immune), and if he doesnt die either it skips him and my uncle dies, or no one else dies ever. its very exciting haha. also w this campaign theres a map thing only the og characters can see and we’re joking how now only three characters left can see it and you can see how my cousin the dm is getting worried that we’ll all die haha. also the campaign is about how the og characters lord got sick and we need to find a cure, but once the og characters die then who cares about the random lord? itll be very funny haha

elenoa, tabaxi monk (tomb of annihilation). since i started at level 4 here, and matildas campaign got abandoned at level 4, it felt fitting to play a monk again. no mobile feat yet, but im playing the sun soul monk from xanathars which gives a radiant punch w a range of 30 ft so i dont need to get close to punch and then use mobile to run away. 

i havent even talked about where the names for each one came from….. maybe another time if asked……..

17: what is your favourite race?

idk actually. the only races ive ever played multiple times are humans, but altogether ive played longer as a dragonborn or gnome than human so like. theres not super much difference in the races in phb, like its just flavour. the new races and stuff have heaps extra stuff, but tabaxi is the only one of them ive ever played and only two sessions so far. i think humans are cool bc you get a feat at level 1 haha but other than that theres not really much difference in them yknow? races w darkvision make things easier too haha but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ 

thank you for these asks!!! it took so long to respond haha im gonna be late to uni now (bc still in pjs havent made lunch or brushed teeth or anything and if i wanna be on time i gotta leave in the next 15 minutes so maybe ill just…… skip this lecture lol idk haha

[holmesoverture]

In Sherlock’s Room, Part Two

Part One Be Here

Title: In Sherlock’s Room Rating (for this half): PG Total Word Count: 6431 Pairing: bi Watson/ace trans Holmes Universe: Modern AU of the original canon Summary: Holmes solves a case in his jammies.  Watson does laundry and makes ravioli.

TW for this half: very vaguely implied past acephobia; another mention of past acephobia (probably past transphobia also) which is immediately followed by petty revenge

Editing was tedious work.  My editor, for all his many redeeming qualities, invariably failed to appreciate the flowery endings to my tales and insisted I cut them off far earlier than I should have preferred.

“People read your stories for two reasons,” he once told me after nearly a half-hour of increasingly stormy debate on the subject; “the mystery, and the solution to the mystery.  No one cares what happens to you once the crook is sitting in a jail cell.  You can spend the night giving each other gob-jobs for all anyone cares.  Oh, I’ve said something funny now, have I?”

The bundles of fan mail I received every week inquiring as to whether I was single and whether Holmes was any good at finding hidden sausages made me question his judgment, but I was paid very handsomely for my work.  I could afford to assume that he had been made editor for a reason.

My efforts to curtail the offending epilogues on my own proved futile and so I had given up altogether, allowing my fingers to stretch the story for as long as they pleased, knowing that my editor would cut it all anyway while cursing my name. I was well into an appallingly purple passage in which Holmes and I compare the seasonal changes of the leaves to the arc of the average criminal’s career when Holmes burst in, catching the door before it could slam into the wall.

“Ceromancy!” he cried.

“Gesundheit,” I said.

“Kommst du mit, Naseweis.”

One did not need to speak German to understand what he wanted.  I followed him back to his room.  He had turned on some music since I left, a whiplash-inducing blend of classical pieces and Eurovision finalists.  Several new items had taken up residence on his desk.  His laptop now sat amongst the clutter rather than on his bed, along with a large, overly fragrant lavender candle, either borrowed or stolen from Mrs Hudson, and a bowl of water with a vaguely egg-shaped bit of hardened wax floating in its centre.

“I take it this is somehow connected with cera… ciril—”

“Ceromancy.  It is the art of divining the future via wax images in water.  One of the methods involves adding certain ingredients to the water, including seeds of the cuminum cyminum, which Mrs Mulvehill reports smelling in her wife’s vehicle on more than one occasion, and sprigs of ruta graveolens, a toxic herb that can cause blisters.”

I recalled the neatly torn note in the package that had started Holmes’ day, in which Mrs Mulvehill remarked upon the blisters on her wife’s hand.

“Further,” Holmes continued, “this particular set of instructions involves tying two candles together with a red ribbon.”

He spun the laptop so I could see the screen, though I hardly needed to look to know what would be there: the photograph of the red ribbon tied to the rearview mirror.

“That looks about long enough to bind a pair of candles, does it not?” said he.

I thought it strange that a woman should drive five hours one way every weekend simply to have her fortune told, and said so to Holmes.

“I have not yet finished examining all of the evidence.  There may very well be another explanation for these clues that will become apparent once I reach the end of my investigation.”

“So there is still a chance that Polly Mulvehill is seeing another woman?”

“Unfortunately for our client, yes.”

He lifted a hand to swipe to the next photograph, then gave it a second thought and turned to me instead.

“Why do people do it?” he asked.

“Do what?”

“Cheat.  Polly Mulvehill has a perfectly devoted and intelligent wife, but that wasn’t enough for her.  She still felt the need to fill her time and, presumably, various other things with someone else, all in pursuit of a few sweaty, sticky moments on a flat surface. What can possibly be so thrilling about sex that it drives people to betray those closest to them?  It can’t be any better than a concert at the Barbican, and I wouldn’t cheat on you for a box seat.”

That hadn’t ever been a concern of mine, but it was nice to know.

“Sex is pleasurable for a lot of people,” I said, “and for some, it confers a certain status that concert tickets don’t.  It makes them feel powerful, attractive, special, even loved—”

“That hardly justifies cheating.”

“Of course it doesn’t.  I suppose some people never learned the same sort of self-control that you have with regard to box seats.”

He laughed at the jab and began setting up his chemical apparatus as the delicate dénouement of Gluck’s Melodie ceded to the gravelly bombast of Lordi’s Hard Rock Hallelujah.

“What are you going to do now?” I asked.

“I must test the dirt samples sent to me by Mrs Mulvehill to determine if there is anything distinctive about them.  The definitive answer to the question of how Polly Mulvehill has been spending her weekends may well be lurking in one of these test tubes.”

He muttered a few more disparaging comments about unfaithful spouses before returning to work.  I sat on the edge of Holmes’ bed and ran a finger along a seam in his blanket.  It had some peculiar stains that I would have to remember to ask about, to make sure he wasn’t slowly poisoning himself in his sleep.  Not for the first time, I was grateful that we had elected to retain separate bedrooms even after starting our relationship.

At that time it had been almost a decade since I last slept with someone.  Her name was Allie, or something like it.  She was tall and dark and sarcastic and just barely passable in the bedroom.  I suppose it was the lingering memory of her mediocrity that helped reinforce the idea of there being more important elements than sex in a romantic relationship when Holmes wrote me the first of what would become an entire drawerful of love letters.  He made it clear from the very start that he could offer me every sort of intimacy except that one, but that does not make our relationship in any way less.  Maybe it’s the fact that I will never have the chance to confront this issue in my published works that compels me to be perfectly clear about it here: we are lovers, in every sense of the word except that one upon which our society places the most importance.

Well, I suppose I shouldn’t judge others for their ignorance.  I held a similar view in a past life.  “Experience of women on three continents” was, despite what my editor prefers to believe, not an exaggeration.  Nor is it an exaggeration to say I have never once regretted abandoning my old ways.  Who wouldn’t give up sex for love?

Perhaps not Polly Mulvehill.  Or perhaps she really did learn her lesson and would agree with me after all.  It seems to me such an obvious decision, but on those infrequent occasions when I have attempted to explain our relationship to an outsider, I am almost inevitably met with disbelief at best.  Mrs Hudson took it in her stride, bless her, but Lestrade got very confused when I responded to his barely veiled innuendos with the truth. I am slightly ashamed and very satisfied to say that I went for the jugular almost immediately.

“If your wife got sick and wasn’t able to have sex with you anymore, or if her hormones change as she gets older and her libido drops, which does happen by the way, would you walk out on her just because she wasn’t giving you any?”

“Of course not!”  To Lestrade’s credit, he looked scandalised at the very suggestion.  “She’s my wife, the mother of my children—”

“It’s the same with us.  Well, not exactly the same.  Obviously, there are some differences in our lines of reasoning, but my point is that you love your partner more than you love sex and so do I.  That is, I love my partner more than I love sex, not your partner.  You know what I meant,” I said, irritated, when he started laughing.

“You’re much more eloquent as a writer than as an orator,” he replied, but he bought me a pint as an apology and we never spoke on the matter again.

I suppose I could have laughed along with his jokes instead of lecturing him on asexuality, but I should have felt guilty allowing him to continue operating under the assumption that Holmes and I were doing it.  The mere idea of engaging in such activities makes Holmes so terribly uncomfortable.  Having to endure ribald ragging, no matter how good-natured, from the one police inspector he respects could only end unpleasantly for both parties.

Feeling suddenly maudlin, I moved my bad leg so it rested fully on the stained blanket, leaned back against the headboard, and watched as Holmes went about his work.  His hands, despite appearing ill-fittingly large on his slender wrists, always managed to look graceful when engaged in one of his chemical experiments.  But I suppose everyone looks more themselves when they are doing what they are best at.

I believe I drifted off a bit after that, lulled into a contented daze by the rhythm of clinking glass and the scratch of pencil on notebook paper.  I began to come out of my trance when he came out of his.  He tried and failed to control a smile.  A few scribbles later and he gave up all pretense of dignified detachment, jumping in place and clapping, sending the pencil clattering into the dustbin beside his desk.  That was alright.  He preferred to keep his writing implements in there anyway.

With but a short moment of warning he swept me into his arms, then released me and tugged me towards his desk before I had the chance to hug him back.

“This is far better than I could have hoped for!  What a splendid case this has turned out to be!”

“Such excitement for a bit of dirt,” I remarked.

“No mere ‘bit of dirt’ is this.  Have a look at the results of the soil analysis I ran.”

I did as he asked.  Even with my limited understanding of soil composition, I knew at once what had brought the light to his grey eyes.

“Iridium?”

“Yes.  It is exceedingly rare on Earth but much more common in meteorites.”

“I know what it is.  I just didn’t think you would, given your extreme disinterest in astronomy.”

“I looked it up,” Holmes said, witheringly.  Then, perking up, he added, “I suspect the sample in Polly Mulvehill’s boot came from such a meteorite, or perhaps from an object that was found within the iridium anomaly.”

“You did say she works at a museum.”

“She volunteers as a tour guide.  I rather doubt she has the authority to take archaeological treasures home with her.”

“So you’re saying—”

“Museums are a study in contrasts, my dear Watson.  In their exhibition rooms, they are well-organized, often beautifully laid out bastions of knowledge dedicated to preserving the past into the future.  However, safely shielded from the public eye is invariably an overcrowded and poorly catalogued backroom littered with valuables that could be missing for months or years before anyone noticed.  Why, I stole this very spoon from the British Museum over a decade ago and still they’re none the wiser!”

“Holmes!”

“Oh, come now, Boswell.  This is a soup spoon from my mother’s flatware collection.  Do you really think so little of me?”

“On the contrary, I think highly enough of you that I expect you could abscond with the British Museum’s entire collection of Egyptian antiquities and return them to Egypt before the guard could leave his chair.  Why do you have your mother’s soup spoon?”

Holmes abruptly stopped preening at my inquiry.

“After my last visit to Sussex, you asked why I was in such a strop and I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Yes?”

“She kept asking when you and I would give her grandchildren.  I should have run out at once and arranged for a hysterectomy if Mycroft hadn’t been there to stop me.  Instead I took her soup spoon.  Are you very angry with me?”

“Not with you, no.”  But the next time I was misfortunate enough to encounter Mrs Holmes, I thought I might distract her long enough for Holmes to make off with the rest of her flatware, and possibly a vase or two.  I did not tell him the specifics of my thoughts, instead running a careful hand through the tangles in his hair.  He was much more appreciative of such gestures when not occupied by a case.  Had I attempted to demonstrate any form of affection prior to the discovery of the iridium, he should have pulled back and shook his head, putting a stop to my ministrations.  Now, he not only permitted the display, he encouraged it, throwing back his head with a contented sigh.  He grasped my free hand with both of his, enjoying the light scratch of my callouses across his own, eyes closed so he could focus on the sensation.

At length he straightened in his chair and looked around, as if in search of something.

“I believe we have gotten rather off the subject,” he said.  He crowed with victory when he made visual confirmation of his laptop teetering precariously on the edge of his desk, where it had been shoved to make room for the chemistry equipment.  “I must get in touch with Mrs Mulvehill—Mrs Evelyn Mulvehill, that is—and alert her to the happy news.”

“I would hardly call the fact that her wife is stealing from her place of employment happy news, Holmes.”

“Perhaps not to you or I, but to a woman bracing herself for the news that her beloved has yet again been unfaithful, it may well be the highlight of her day.”

I never saw Evelyn Mulvehill’s response to the longwinded email Holmes sent containing his deductions, but Holmes informed me it was cordial and grateful and would I please stop scribbling in my notebook?  He had just learned the most wonderful new waltz that I was sure to love if only I’d pay it the attention it (and he) deserved.

We did not hear from the Mulvehills for nearly a fortnight.  At that time, as a harsh rain assaulted the streets and the rooftops of London, Holmes thrust an open envelope, sent from Kendal, Cumbria, under my nose.  Along with her cheque came a letter from our former client, thanking Holmes for his help and informing us of the full meaning behind the clues he had deciphered for her.  Evelyn confronted her wife about the matter the moment she returned from work on the day of Holmes’ revelation.  Polly, to her credit, admitted to the scheme at once, but the story which followed her confession was one that neither of us could have expected.

Polly Mulvehill loved her museum and the history it saved and displayed, but the longer she worked there, the more she realised how dependent it was upon artifacts illegally obtained when Britain was at her most imperialistic. What right did any museum, even the one she held so near and dear, have to keep such items?  She made then a vow to smuggle what she could out of the museum and back to the lands from which they had been taken.

She sought out a fence, a man based in Aberdeen who was very superstitious and insisted upon consulting a friend who specialised in divination, including ceromancy, before each and every step of their exchange.  At least twice, to Polly’s intense displeasure, the fence interpreted the candle drippings negatively and refused to accept the goods, forcing Polly to return with the stolen artifacts to Kendal until the following week.  Still, the trouble was worth it, Polly Mulvehill insisted, for the fence was just as devoted to repatriation as she and would do most anything, so long as the candles gave their blessing, to bring the haughty English down a peg. Upon receipt of the stolen items, the fence made his escape on a flight from Aberdeen International Airport, which Polly only made the mistake of booking a hotel next to once, compared with the eleven times she had travelled to Aberdeen on her self-imposed mission. One was also the number of times she made the mistake of handling the herbs which the fortune teller used to predict their chances of success.

Evelyn was so awestruck by her wife’s courage and integrity that she quit her accounting job and started an organisation dedicated to negotiating the legal return of all stolen artifacts to their countries of origin.  It is an organisation the Mulvehills run to this very day.  The missive ended with a plea veiled as a compliment, stating that Evelyn Mulvehill knew Holmes to be a gentleman of the utmost discretion, and that she trusted him to breathe not a word of her wife’s rashness to the authorities.  The final item enclosed in the envelope was a familiar, stout red ribbon.  Holmes smiled when I held up the ribbon and requested I put the note into the fire.

“Another mystery over and done with,” said he, snapping the blinds shut against the sight of the driving storm.  “Will you be writing up this case for your eager public?”

“I doubt it.  I spent more time folding your laundry than doing anything related to the case. Perhaps I could end it with a big car chase through Aberdeen between us and the superstitious fence.  Maybe throw in the Mulvehills for good measure.”

Holmes chuckled around the empty pipe in his teeth.

“It is no more or less ludicrous than anything else you have written,” he said.

I chose to interpret this remark in a positive light.

Were this a polished and published work rather than a hastily scribbled collection of remembrances in a shabby moleskin notebook, my editor should have ended the account with my destroying the evidence of Polly Mulvehill’s crimes and her wife’s complicity.  It is just as well.  Holmes is, despite the great fame I have inadvertently thrust upon him, an intensely private man.  I doubt he would appreciate the whole of the English-speaking world reading about how we sat together on the sofa, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip, he kneading the pain from my bad leg with a practiced hand, I reading selections from the story I had been editing and taking note of the parts he disapproved of.  He certainly wouldn’t want anyone else knowing about how our light bickering over whether or not I was allowed to describe him as gentle ended in several minutes of kissing that served my argument rather better than his.  And, most of all, he would recoil at the slightest possibility of strangers spying after the fact as he pulled out his laptop and helped me work out plans for a weeklong holiday in Cumbria.

[vasilinaorlova]

hologram and flamingo, superimposed / the self-contained luxury of esoteric fascism

“imagine a man of his age risking what little life he has left for something so absurd as a country.” (Heller)

while the sentiment “Anne Frank might have lived in Brooklyn now and be an 80-y.o. respectable Brooklyn woman, but she was denied the US visa” is very clear to me, the “Brooklyn” part is what makes me question this sentiment

as if it is only Brooklyn–of all the US–that is a suitable place for Anne Frank and the most terrible part, is that it might very well be so. today’s Brooklyn is, evidently, a very Anne-Frank-friendly place. it is easy to be friendly to Anne Frank today. especially in Brooklyn.

carry your inner Brooklyn in your heart indefatigably                                                                                                               [imaginary Brooklyn]

yet the Syrian refugees, denied entry to the US

having green cards on their hands

is a different story

inasmuch as Brooklyn is a friendly place

the positionality of the hypothetical Arab in the modern world is altogether different from the positionality of the hypothetical Jew in the modern world

not to mention that Syrians come in different ethnic backgrounds and national affiliations

different histories different sensibilities to the cultural figures set in motion in mind of the hypothetical Brooklyner it all is horrendous to be sure one could only wonder if there is a little child writer amongst those people stuck in the USA airports

and if it validates everything in a perverse manner

as if we only can be capable of appreciating carefully trimmed writers

attending to European standards of being humans a child already and inevitably enveloped in the political and literary contexts, the discourses and their perpetuators and perpetrators, performing multiple political and cultural and plainly human violations another curse in haste sent into the useless, irresponsive sky.                        finally I feel like home in the US. well done, mr president “illegal immigration” is not a target of Trump, as became crystal clear by airport detention of green-card holders. green cards=>their status in the US was legal. the target is people(s) of “wrong” races. I hope I will be deported or denied entrance to the US one day. to be sure, it’ll be a drama for me and my family. yet such is the sacred duty of every honest noncitizen as revealed today. history is coined today                             said my imaginary Marx                                                                             looking like philosopher                                                   Daniel Dennett                                                                                      too, in the sheen of his rarefied beard*                                                                                                phallogocentrism, said Derrida (what did he know--almighty phallus precludes these beings from knowing anything( as facebook reached the definitive completion of becoming a police machine--with border patrol checking facebook accounts for undesirable political messages--let’s remember this day there was a lot of speculations and evidence as to how facebook controls and polices citizens. and it'd be naive for the state apparatus--unimaginably naive--not to. were you a state representative, would you refuse to use such an endless source of most intimate information? of course not! yet this

is taking it to a new level

“it’s official”

“it’s a boy” “it’s a beast” what do I do? the answer is of course not to abandon social media and nook into a corner but to use platforms for more open and straightforward political commentary between silence and speaking out time and again one chooses speaking out not because it makes so much of a difference but because thus one earns self-respect loyalty to oneself                even though I often find myself sadly devoid of the pleasure of aligning with American elites, whether they are the establishment or the opposition. particularly in this dreadful time when everyone starts speaking in slogans. the very mechanisms enabling free speech and exchange of ideas, are simultaneously the mechanisms of controlling with lots of fear devices embedded that promulgate self-censure or cautionary gestures such as “friends only” settings. and why? well, it is because if you were to express yourself freely without reservation, you should first resign from all the positions you are currently holding–at least,that is what people believe; and who could tell them that they are wrong? not everyone is capable of becoming either a homeless body or a mini Žižek (some would argue, those two figures are in some sense synonymous, but they are not: the first figure is the figure of the radical renunciation of societal etiquette, and the second is performative of radical renunciation, in which absolute conformance is deftly packaged). Trudeau looked great on the backdrop of mumblers consisting of the Western politicians of all ranges. a new Western masculinity of sorts: kind and soft, still performatively masculine. in this sense, Trudeau is very much like a naked-torsoed Putin, a statue of Putin. the next Canadian Prime Minister would be a loyal Trumpist, because Trudeau has such a beautiful chest and wide shoulders--he should have looked less of a politician in all the maleness of this role. another spectacle to watch would be, a quick drift to the right of the Democratic party. half a year, and you would not tell the tomorrow’s democrat from the yesterday’s republican. “conservatives,” in their turn, would evolve into something which eats werewolves in the full moon. I told my husband six years ago that the revoking of the birthright citizenship would happen on our memory. one could never err predicting the worst.

back to being an unrelenting misandrist, I guess

even the best among men are still men, and thus deserve contempt.

“yes, I am a hatred-spewing feminist,” she said and turned into a dragon vomiting fire.

the main concern is to not wake up, come to the mirror, and see a face of the fascist in there                                                 one day

“There are many who do not know they are fascists but will find it out when the time comes” - Hemingway, For Whom the Bell Tolls (thanks to Liz Lewis for the reminder)

to take a refuge in madness seems to be an appealing option these days

only it, like any other eccentricity, is a luxury for a dispossessed, displaced human being, madness means a series of terrors enacted upon them, and then the quick, violent death--and I, not being such a dispossessed individual, will merely spend several months taking the vertiginous drugs after a short incarceration in a pristine laboratory-like clinic. yes, I am the same self-centered, narcissistic fascist. I am the heartless sadist, a servants to the esoteric ideas of my own superiority. that’s why Trump is crystal clear to me, and, the whim he is, it is merely a historical whim also that I cannot praise and laud the vulgar fascism that he propagates. with the methodicalness and accuracy that befitted fascists (something close to this W.G. Sebald once said, I cannot find the exact quote, said with a cold, lingering surprise--the writer whose oeuvres are one vibrating (vibrant and reverberating) lament and repentance over the crime of the Nazis, the lament never expressed directly and straightforwardly, but gently, in all sorts of circuitous ways, allegorically, if you will, yet that surprise of his pierced me as my own icy surprise: it could hardly contain admiration “Every woman adores a Fascist” (Sylvia Plath)

                                                      no

Everyone adores a fascist                                               yet of course                                                 oh of course                                                   everyone is repulsed by a fascist,                                                       you would want to say, yet                                                         a month ago I did not read objections                                                            to suggestions that Hitler was a                                                                brilliant politicians, and no one                                                                  questioned--among those who                                                                      consider themselves sane--                                                                          or asked on Quora,** if                                                                                Hitler really was that                                                                                       bad                                                                                          surely bad but                                                                                                 not that                                                                                                          bad

that’s because things change quickly. and I am the worst fascist (well, I am a femi-Nazi after all), who is ascribing the name of fascists to anyone who is regretfully male or - - - (the continuation is not important). _______________________________________ *Daniel Dennett’s treatise “Darwin’s Dangerous Idea” I read after I was lucky to meet Dennett in person at the Philosophy department of the Lomonosov Moscow State University where he first gave a lecture and then was greeted at our division (of the History of the Western Philosophy). He was there in all the shine of his white beard.His crisp ideas are generally well-known. In his ardent atheism, Daniel Dennett goes as far as to use a metaphor of humans being robots of sorts, while the true subjects of evolution are genes. Being a consistent evolutionist, the philosopher nevertheless uses the expression “Mother Nature,” which shows, despite the intended irony, how difficult it is to change the language practice (linguistic ideology) even when one tries to repudiate ideas behind said practice. Dennett very well might be a deist after all. I perceived him as a part of that front of atheism which includes Richard Dawkins. Admittedly, new atheists “can’t be sure that god doesn’t exist.” It is evidently as difficult to be a consecutive atheist as it is difficult to be a theist in our times. And why? Because the very nature of “God” (as a term) is a linguistic fallacy. Another reason of why everyone is merely lukewarm, is that humanity inhabits the post-human era. Human is at least two centuries outdated, and there is no one coming to take on their place. **On the February 9th, 2017, the website functioning as opening space for questions and answers, Quora, “collapsed” (made invisible) my answer to the question formulated as follows: “Is the story about Hitler and the piano wire hangings a myth? I'm aware these hanging occurred but I've read that Hitler asked that the hangings be recorded for viewing. This seems to clash with what I've read about Hitler and his tendencies to witness atrocities authorized by him; that Hitler had a very weak stomach for actually wanting to see brutality.” My answer was: “No, Hitler was a nice weak-stomached kitten, everything too harsh that is said of him is but propaganda. I hope I answered this question in the mood of the times and can be a Standartenfürer of tomorrow.” (To clarify, it is a historic fact that Hitler watched the executions conducted through hanging, on video. Plenty of sources there are to support this. But for the shift of the linguistic framing the actual fact is not important. It suffices to say that the repetitive expression of the disbelieving doubt--no matter how irrational such doubt is, after everything that had been conducted under the orders of Hitler--is enough to signal the change in the atmosphere, the change difficult to catch, and these doubts--well-meaning and seeking the historical truth, ostensibly, doubts coming from the good Samaritans--will reoccur time and again, until they will reach their halt, which is also their climax. And the notched wheel will skip a bit: the perception of historical figure will shift undeniably. Intelligent people will ask: but what proofs do you have? Just as my friend, a literary critic and a writer, asked me once: “But what proofs do you, you yourself, have?” when we spoke about Stalin and his atrocities. And I did have plenty. But this is not the beginning of the conversation. This is the end of it. After this type of question, no amount of proofs could possibly doubt the doubt. Cogito ergo sum? No. Cogito ergo non cogito. He did not express doubt--he stood for the new order, in which Stalin was the great leader of the great country. His cogito was non cogito, for non cogito ergo sum in such a world’s (re)ordering.)