#and her handwriting was so small it was barely legible

[the-kneesbees]

people with good handwriting make me so angry

[violettduchess]

A/N: I am so happy to be able to share my gift for the lovely @ikeromantic 💜 A deep dive into your blog told me you love AUs as much as I do so I was so happy to create one for our favorite Lelouchian.

Thank you to @ikemenlibrary and @sunnyikemen for hosting and for being supportive, accommodating and all-around superstars. 💜

Clavis x Emma

Magic AU, Soulmates AU, First Kiss, Enemies to Lovers

WC: ~2k

The sun is glowing a bright lemon-yellow as Emma closes the wooden door to her shop. It’s a beautiful door, made of dark walnut and decorated with silvery moons and stars. Across the top, the words “Belle Magie” are etched into the hard wood. At night, the lettering glows a soft gold. Humming to herself, she wraps her free hand around the ornate brass doorknob and a subtle, warm orange glow emanates from her fingertips. The moons and stars flash once and she hears a satisfying, soft whoosh of magic. The door to her shop is now locked via enchantment and no one except Emma will be able to enter and poke around at all the treasures that line her shelves and counters.

Smoothing down her ochre and black robes, she carefully makes her way across the cobblestone street to the shop that is literally across from hers. Her nose wrinkles at the sign that hangs above the wooden door: “Lelouchian Enchantments” written in swirling, silver lettering that she would say is barely legible. His note, written in the same dizzying writing, is clutched tightly in her hand as she pushes open the lavender-colored door with a celestial design nearly identical to her own. But that is where the similarity ends.

Whereas Emma’s shop is neat, organized by ingredients, everything with its own place and labeled in her own very careful handwriting, his is a gigantic explosion of almost anything one can imagine. Bottles filled with liquids of all colors and bottles with questionable things floating in them, dried herbs and seeds in pots and packets, a whole section of plants that bite anyone who comes near them, not to mention odd gemstones, vibrant powders, paints and feathers. She ducks underneath the silver vines that have wrapped themselves around the wooden ceiling beams, ignoring the way they contract and rustle their leaves at her, and approaches the counter where she finds Clavis himself, carefully sorting what looks like glittery kidney beans.

“I got your missive. I believe it broke in through my window in order to deliver itself.”

At the sound of her voice, he turns, golden eyes gleaming like copper in sunlight. He wipes his hands on the folds of his pale lavender robes, grinning slowly. She is forced to admit to herself for the millionth time that Clavis is hardly unpleasant to look at, per say. But oh, how he irks her, with his smooth words, flamboyant personality and flashy enchantments. 

“Oh dearie me, when I said it was urgent, I suppose that gave it permission to cause destruction. I apologize.”

She bats away several tiny golden motes that have taken an interest in her chestnut hair and Clavis lifts his hand, wiggling his fingers in invitation. The golden pinpricks of light float towards him, circling his wrist and then solidify into a gold bracelet.

Refusing to be distracted by his tricks, she unscrolls his letter and lays it on the counter.

“Well? Where is it?”

“So impatient,” he tuts as he kneels down, lifting an ornate silver box from under the counter. It’s about the size of his hand and she can’t help but watch the way he trails his fingertips over the decorative embellishments. He has such elegant hands.

One brow arches slowly as she crosses her arms, shoving that thought away and burying it in annoyance.. “Well…..are you going to open it….?”

He sighs theatrically. “Some people have no sense of showmanship.”

Her lips quirk into a small, involuntary grin. “I’m not one of the poor suckers who come in here for your tricks and potions, Lelouch. Now open the box.”

He tilts his head, clearly enjoying how much she is trying to hide her curiosity. His hand rests on the lid of the box but doesn’t move.

“Don’t you want to know the story of how I acquired such a treasure? Why, it’s a tale of mighty heroics the likes of-”

“No. No, I do not.”

He pretends to be offended but the light in his eyes gives away the truth. 

“But it involves a goblin merchant from Benitoite and a heartsick wizard from the Jade Forest and-”

“And a dragon and a sea witch and a bloody one-eyed pegasus. Clavis, just open the box!” 

He laughs and it is the needle deflating the balloon of irritation that had overtaken her. She’s never met anyone with a laugh quite like his. It’s almost musical, but in the way of the inviting, simple melody of a children’s song. Something that stays with her, imprinting itself on her mind.

“Such an impatient pumpkin.”

“Don’t call me pumpkin.” The response is automatic, a reflex built over the long while she has known him. The first time Clavis had seen her do magic and seen the yellow-orange glow her magic emanates, he had bestowed her with that aggravating nickname.

Nimble fingers curl over the lid of the box and then he lifts it, revealing a round, milky-white stone nestled into a bed of black velvet. It reminds her immediately of the moon against a starless night sky.

She tilts her head quizzically. “This is the all-power Amor Lapis?” She had imagined something called the “Love Stone” being far more ostentatious, something pink or red and wild with sparkles. Something that would take her breath away. This stone, while pretty in its own way, looks rather ordinary.

“Such a skeptic.” He lifts the stone from its box, holding it in the palm of his hand. “It will only glow when two soulmates have found each other.” He lifts his gaze to her, his smile playful. “Know any perfect couples?”

She rolls her eyes, reaching out to touch the stone. “There’s no such thing as a perfect-” Her fingers brush Clavis’s palm and suddenly, the middle of the white stone begins to brighten, a soft glow radiating out from the center.

She jerks her hand away even as he nearly drops it. Her heart roars to life, knocking wildly around inside her chest.

Neither of them move and then, at the same time they both do, Clavis uncharacteristically fumbling to put the stone back in its box and she taking several steps back, one hand curling into the velvet folds of her cloak.

“It’s broken! It’s clearly defective!” Why does her voice sound just a bit shrill to her ears?

He clears his throat. She’s rarely seen him so rattled.

“It….oh dear…..maybe it is.” He frowns, staring down at the stone, at the dull, cream color of it, no glow to be seen. Then he draws in a breath, one that even she can hear shaking and looks at her. There is something unfamiliar in the depths of his sunrise eyes.

“We should try that again.”

“Try what again, exactly?”

“Touching.”

She should be balking at the very suggestion. 

She should already be halfway out of his crazy shop. 

She shouldn’t be stepping closer again, her gaze jumping from the stone back to him and then back again. 

And she really really should not be saying-

“Alright. To-to prove its deficiency.”

The smooth, dark counter is a barrier between them, one that feels like armor, something that will protect her although what she needs protecting from is uncertain, some nebulous thing forming on the edges of her consciousness, some unknown dream rising from the shadows of slumber.

Clavis then holds out his hand, palm up, his gaze meeting hers. Her heartbeat drums wildly through her veins, a rhythm she has never known before. Slowly she lifts her hand and places it in his. His skin is cool and smooth, soft in a way she would not have expected. Emma can feel his magic just here, flowing through him. It feels shockingly calm, not the wild chaos she thought it might be but soothing, like the scent of lavender, the soft pastels of the sky at sundown. She can feel her own magic responding, warming as it flows through her.

Beneath their joined hands, the Amor Lapis begins glowing again, a soft white light like a tiny flame igniting inside the stone. Her heartbeat roaring in her ears, she slowly withdraws her hand from his and watches as the glow dims and then, when they are no longer touching, winks off like a tiny candle snuffed out by a breeze. When Emma has gathered enough courage, she raises her gaze from the milky-colored stone to Clavis and her heart trips over its own beat. His eyes rival the glow of the stone, something new burning in their golden depths. The light of revelation. The light of truth. The light of desire.

When he finally speaks, his voice sounds soft, breathy in a way that causes Emma to bite the inside of her lip at the sound.

“Dearie me,” he murmurs, his gaze locked with hers, bright with an intensity that feels almost physical. “If that happens when we touch hands, imagine what might happen if we actually kiss.”

The word lingers between them, shimmering in the air like desert heat over sand dunes. Emma unconsciously licks her lips and Clavis’s gaze drops there, fast as quicksilver. His own lips part slightly as he stares at the full curve of her lower lip, the sweet bow of the top. His own voice, his own words, echo like thunder between them. 

….if we actually…..

….kiss….

Emma hasn't moved, hasn’t said a word, her soft eyes wide as a deer’s startled by a sudden, unexpected sound. And then he realizes what he said, what he has actually suggested and shame floods him, a tsunami of embarrassment that washes away the glimmer of hope, the clouds of desire that had overtaken him. 

What the hell was he thinking, talking like that? As if someone like her, someone so intelligent and kind and talented, someone beautiful inside and out, would ever be soulmates with someone like him. Forget soulmates, she doesn’t even like him. 

He hangs in head, soft twilight locks falling across his forehead, his knuckles white as he grips the counter with trembling hands. Stupid. Idiot. Never good enough. Never smart enough. Never ever would he be enough for someone else.

“Nevermind, I lost myself for a moment.” The words are acrid on his tongue and he feels the hot wash of color staining his cheeks and neck. “Obviously, there’s no way–”

Her hands are suddenly gripping those warm cheeks, pulling him towards her, forcing him to lean over the counter, above the stone, where she presses her lips to his. The Amor Lapis explodes with radiance, a tiny supernova encased by smooth stone. Even with closed eyes, Emma notices the brightening of the light but right now, she does not care. Because right now, she is holding Clavis’s face in her hands, and she is falling falling falling into kissing him.

At first he freezes, shock turning his blood to ice water in his veins. But then he realizes her mouth is really there, pressed against his, and then the burst of light automatically closes his eyes and the shock begins to thaw.

Now all he feels is the warmth of her kiss, the tentative movement of her lips and he gasps, reaching across the counter to touch her. Cradling each other’s face, they kiss, at first slowly, drinking in the fragile newness of the sensation, the unveiling of the truth that has been growing in both their hearts, quietly. Steadily. And then novelty slowly turns to pleasure, to desire. He grows bolder, sliding a hand down to the nape of her neck, holding her there so he can part her lips and sink into the sweet taste of her. If this is a dream, may he never wake up.

Emma sighs against him, a sound that echoes the twinkling of diamond-bright stars in a black velvet sky. All this time….all this time she’s been falling in love and never even realized it.

Minutes pass. Or maybe hours. Neither of them can say when they finally pull away from one another. Breathless, light-headed, floating, they both glance down at the Amor Lapis. The stone is luminous, glowing like a tiny moon dropped from the heavens. 

And it will continue to give off its beautiful light, for the rest of their days.

Tagging: @xbalayage @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @rhodoliteschaos @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @portrait-ninja @ikesimpleton @mastering-procrastinating @namine-somebodies-nobody @queen-dahlia @scorchieart @nightghoul381 @bubblexly

[missredherring]

Develop

Joel Miller x Female Reader

Rating: R

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: one-sided feelings. unspecified age gap. stalker behavior. a dash of voyeurism? female masturbation.

Summary: Your fingers freeze on the mouse when you get to the last pictures of the final roll of film. You scroll through, eyes straining to understand what the thumbnail is showing you. 

It looks like Joel had an adult sleepover of his own.

A/N: This came from @psychedelic-ink and the idea that Joel has a collection of dirty pictures. Thank you @johnwatsn to the moon and back for being an amazing beta.

A little thrill zips through you when you see the name on the blue and white striped envelope on the counter. You crane your neck to see if he’s still in the store, but you only see a pair of broad shoulders and curly hair walking out the door.

There, filling out the request form printed on the front of the envelope in neat and legible handwriting, is his name, contact information, and print order.

Joel Miller.

The envelope is slightly larger than a 5x7" print so it can fit the two offered print sizes and negatives easily. It can begrudgingly fit an entire disposable camera, maybe two with seams near bursting, but not the four that Joel had left in a line under the envelope. You smile at his thoughtfulness. Other customers toss them on the counter without a care, but his are lined up neatly with the envelope resting on top. Had he looked around for a rubber band to keep them together? You’re disappointed at the missed opportunity for small talk, but there’s always a chance you’ll be working when he picks his order up. 

You get to work, cracking open the plastic case of the disposable cameras like crab shells. Four rolls of film go into the processor, unspooling and revealing their secrets. Usually he brings in one or two every couple of weeks. They’re filled with things like his daughter’s soccer games, family cookouts with who you think is his brother: they have the same eyes and nose. Sometimes they’re pictures from jobs he does. You don’t know anything about construction, but you think he’s good at what he does. The lines are clean and the structures look solid.

The machines run through their functions and your computer screen steadily fills with thumbnails of pictures as each negative is scanned. It looks like his daughter had a sleepover. There’s picture after picture of faces too close to the lens. Red eyes and toothy grins take up the frame. An impromptu concert with music video dance moves frozen in time, and peaceful faces peeking out of sleeping bags. It looks like a nice time, making you remember sleepovers of your own, and the fuzzy feeling you usually get when looking over Joel’s pictures warms you almost as much as the heat coming from the machines.

Your fingers freeze on the mouse when you get to the last pictures of the final roll of film. You scroll through, eyes straining to understand what the thumbnail is showing you. 

It looks like Joel had an adult sleepover of his own.

Included in your job description as a photo technician is the duty of reviewing photos that people want prints of and deciding if they were too adult in nature to print. That meant no nudes or anything illegal in nature. Thankfully, it’d never been an issue baring the few rolls of film that showed up after an annual biker rally. 

Objectively, these photos aren’t anymore risqué than a boudoir photoshoot. It’s hard to be objective right now. 

Some of the lines are blurry from the camera being operated with one hand. A woman in lingerie pushing up her chest with her arm, just the hint of a coy look on what you could see of her face. The last two are different. The angle, the perspective, and the photographer has changed. 

The lace of the lingerie teasing the curve of a hip and a hand, big and rough-looking, resting just where the line of fabric gives way to skin. The indent of his fingertips just beginning to show as they press down. 

The woman’s face. Her lips are plump and open like she’s waiting for another kiss. Large glassy eyes don’t look back at you from the lens. Instead they’re looking just off to the side, where he must be. 

A man’s hand. It has to be Joel’s; you recognize the fading bruise on his thumbnail from when he handed over his disposable cameras last time. His hand is cupping her jaw, tilting her face to the side just so. Like he was directing her to the perfect pose for this picture. 

Your mind has turned to static. Before you can form a coherent thought, your finger twitches, increasing the print count for the last photo, and before you can cancel it the order is starting, the printer rumbling to life. 

You know you shouldn’t have done it. It’s an invasion of privacy. It’s against the rules. It’s probably illegal. It’s just not right.

The picture, still hot off the rollers, is shoved into your purse like the contraband it is. 

***

You’re too old to be sneaking things into the apartment like this, but it feels like there’s a giant sign pointing right to your purse that tells everyone what you did. You shove it under your mattress and try to forget about it. You can’t. It feels like hiding a dead body. A tell-tale heart under your mattress that beats along with throbbing in your pussy. 

It’s a slip of paper. Nothing. But as you lay in bed that night you swear you can feel it. It makes you feel silly, like the princess and the pea, but you don’t remove it. You don’t have to.

The tableau is seared into your mind’s eye. Showing the negative image on every blank surface you look at. You can’t stop thinking about it, wanting it.

You want to be the one his hands are on. So you touch yourself to that fantasy, and it’s so strong, the closeup of his hands so detailed, that you’re close to coming in minutes. 

You shouldn’t be doing this, but you don’t care about wrong or right; you just want Joel Miller to fuck you. The thought, blunt and delicious, spurs you on and you come, turning your head to your pillow to muffle the whimper that escapes you.

The endorphins rush through your body, and there's some satisfaction from coming, but the ache, the want, is still there as you clench around your own fingers. 

Crossing your arm over your chest, you cup your own face with a trembling hand in the same way Joel had in the picture. Tracing the curve of your lip, you press down, as if admiring the darkened hue.

Did he turn her head just for the camera? Was her pulse hammering in her ears so loudly that she couldn’t hear the crank of the film advancing or the click of the shutter? Did she smile at him after? Did he call her his good girl? Did he call her his "Baby," “Sweetheart,” or “Darlin'” in that southern drawl? Yea, you like that one.

“Look at me, Darlin’.”

Wind, wind, wind. Click.

You imagine it’s his weight on the mattress that makes you shift. The way he’d keep himself back, maybe even still wearing his jeans and nothing else. The bulge in those jeans would be evidence enough of his desire, even if you couldn’t see his face, partially covered by the camera. 

You widen your thighs and lift your hips to him; to his touch and to his view. Your hand goes back down to your pussy and you start touching yourself again, opening the swollen lips for him. The cum makes everything slippery and you know you must look a mess. Spread open and on display for a phantom photographer. Would the flash catch it and make it shine?

Would he want a picture of this moment too? A keepsake from a night of passion. When memories and sensation fade, would he take the picture out and remember you fondly? Would he touch himself while he looked at it? Remembering how you felt? The softness of your skin, the taste on your tongue, the heat of your pussy. Would he be careful not to cover the glossy paper with his cum so it wouldn’t stain? Or would he like that so much he’d do it again on purpose. Covering your image in his cum just like he had covered your body that night. He wouldn’t have had enough wits about him to take a picture of that. 

Your entire body tightens up as you continue to press against your clit, circling and circling, pushing into overstimulation as one orgasm rolls into another. “Joel.” His name echoes in the room and the climax feels better this time.

You go back and forth on whether you want to be the one to hand him his completed order before you fall asleep. 

[cceanvvaves]

growing up; p.jh

(moved to isanggayfrog) warning: none

Jihyo and Y/N have been inseparable the moment they met. The latter arriving in Jihyo's town at the raw age of 4, it was no question as to how the two became so close easily, being the same age, give or take a few months. 

Two girls stood behind their fathers, small hands clutching the men's legs. The slightly shorter of the two stared with wide, curious eyes, wanting to make a new friend but too timid to approach first. Instead, she sent a shy smile, to which Y/n responded with a small one of her own. "Sorry about my daughter," Y/n's father laughed. "I assure you, she's very talkative at home. She's still young, so moving's probably different for her, though I hope she's too young to miss the old house much." Mr. Park looked at her amusedly, pushing Jihyo out from behind. "Go on, say hi."

***

"'M bored," complained Y/n, lazily scribbling a messy 'bear' on her paper. She glanced over at Jihyo's drawing, eyes widening impressed at the much neater flowers. "Look," said Jihyo excitedly, "this one is me" - she pointed at a stick figure in a triangular dress - "and this is you!" she tapped another 'girl' with wiggly lines for hair. The doodles could only be told apart by the dresses' colors, one pink and the other purple. She wrote a barely legible note that said 'Y/n n Jihyo 4evr' with a crossed out 'Jiho' and inverted r. "Really?" Y/n asked brightly, understanding the seemingly alien handwriting. Jihyo nodded. "You agree, right?" "Of course!"

***

"Dad?" Jihyo called up to her father. At 8 years of age, she proved to be a very curious and observant child. "Why do you kiss mommy?" Mr. Park looked into the innocent eyes of his daughter and chuckled. "Because I love her, very, very much." Equipped with this information, she skipped happily to her best friend, pulling her along to the privacy of the bedroom, away from parents' prying eyes. Jihyo suddenly became nervous, which didn't go unnoticed by Y/n.

"What's wrong?" the (still) slightly taller asked, taking her friend's left hand in her own, since the right was hidden behind her back. Slowly, the young Park produced a small, square box, topped with a purple bow. "I asked mommy to let me get it for you," she explained, head bowed. Y/n took it carefully into her hands, slowly lifting the lid and gasping at its contents. A beautiful key pendant shone back at her, its golden glow reflecting in her eyes.

"It's... beautiful," she breathed. "I- thank you- I can't- how can I-" She was cut off by a chaste kiss to the lips, given by none other than Jihyo, oblivious to society's views. "Dad said people kiss when they love each other," she mumbled. "And I love you," she finished matter-of-factly, with a bright smile, which Y/n returned after recovering from the surprise. "I love you, too!"

***

"Did you have fun with Jihyo today?" asked Y/n's mother during dinner. At the mention of her best friend's name, the 8 year old's eyes brightened. "Yes! She gave me a gift. I love her," she finished confidently, scooping some rice into her mouth. Her father frowned. "You love her?" Y/n nodded, "I love her! Like you love mama." Shaking their heads, the parents thought she was too young to know the different kinds of love, so they let it pass, taking it to mean that Y/n loved Jihyo as a sister.

***

A duo of 12 year old girls cuddled by the window, limbs tangled in the covers and staring at the same book. Both of them looked quite untidy, which wasn't really unusual since it was very early in the morning. Y/n and Jihyo had had a sleepover, presently reading Cinderella's story together. "You know, I always wanted to be a princess," Jihyo stated, turning a page. Y/n snorted. "You're already like Cinderella, you somehow manage to lose your shoes and I have to tie your shoelaces." The shorter scowled before retorting, "Well, you're like Elsa, so cold."

"I am not cold. You're like Belle! If books were people, you'd probably marry one." "Then I'll be Belle and you'll be Ariel, you're as clumsy as her, anyway," Jihyo decided. "Nah, I'll be your prince charming," Y/n teased. "Are you implying that I am the beauty and you are the beast?" Y/n feigned a look of hurt. "Rude! And I thought my future girlfriend was a lovely lady." Jihyo blushed.

***

But all the oblivious talk about love and being girlfriends, all the 'dates' and sneaked hugs ceased as they grew older. People started to raise eyebrows when they were a bit too close; it was no longer cooed at like it was when they were 'young and clueless'. With this, the best friends drifted apart, more focused on getting good grades, hanging out with other friend groups and living their youthful life. Their relationship only worsened when Y/n didn't lose her 'childhood feelings'. Jihyo, on the other hand, had gotten herself a boyfriend, no longer having enough time for all her friendships. It was probably because of this they had a fight.

Both sat around a glass bottle among friends, together in a mutual friend's house. The small group was in the middle of a Truth or Dare game. The last player, Nayeon, who'd just danced to the Macarena for 5 minutes, spun the bottle. It landed on Jihyo, who was asked by a mischievous Nayeon after picking Truth, "Was Daniel your first kiss?" Jihyo glanced at Y/n, who either didn't care or wasn't paying attention. "Yes," she said. Y/n stood abruptly and stalked off without a word, leaving the remaining girls confused.

***

"Why are you avoiding me?" Jihyo cornered Y/n at the girl's bathroom. "Why do you care?" she shot back, already having a bad day and not wishing to deal with anything at the moment. "What? Because I'm worried about you, idiot! Your grades dropped when you're usually a perfectionist, you seem to leave every time I enter the room, and you're always grumpy!" Y/n glared, rising up to her full height, trying to intimidate the shorter. "Why don't you hang out with your boyfriend instead, huh? I bet he keeps you busy." Jihyo gasped, offended. Pushing Y/n harshly by the shoulder, she said in a higher voice, "What are you implying, huh?! What's your problem?"

"You! You're my problem! Just because we're older, you left me! Sure, I understand you have limited time, you have to juggle it between studies and socializing, but every time I try to hang out with you, you have to decline for your other friends or boyfriend! Is seeing them everyday not enough? Do you even miss me?" she ranted, pushing her way out and slamming the door, leaving Jihyo bewildered.

***

"Jihyo's here to see you, dear!" Y/n's mother called from downstairs. "I'm busy!" she yelled back, but it was a complete lie. She was simply lying down on her bed and sobbing inside. "You shouldn't lie to my face like that," her visitor said with her arms crossed. Peeking at her from under her arm, Y/n scoffed. "Leave me alone." "That's not nice," Jihyo patted the covers smooth. "Do you remember what we used to do here? You said you'd be my prince charming." She smiled at the memory. "Well, you've found your true prince charming," the taller turned away. "No, actually. We broke up a few days ago. I suppose you didn't know because you've been avoiding me," Jihyo added shrewdly. "Why?"

"'Cause we agreed that we didn't like each other anymore."

"Okay," said Y/n, dropping her head back on the soft pillows and willing herself to fall asleep. But she was interrupted by Jihyo. "Do you remember what happened here when we were eight?"

A flash of memory went through her mind. Of course she remembers, it was the happiest day of her life. No, every moment with Jihyo was the happiest. Her hand subconsciously moved to wrap around the key necklace. The action was noticed by the giver.

"You still have it."

"Yeah,"

Silence.. and then-

"Can I kiss you?"

Y/n shot up in surprise, looking incredulously at her friend. "Sorry?"

"You heard me," Jihyo whispered, scooting closer. Y/n thought for a moment. Jihyo broke up with her boyfriend, so she wasn't ruining a relationship.. "Okay."

Jihyo pressed her lips on Y/n's quite roughly, not as gentle as it was when they were 8. Hands roamed each other's bodies, the atmosphere getting hotter by the second and both girls losing the ability to breathe-

Before it escalated further, Y/n pushed her away. "Was that enough for you?" she mumbled with swollen lips, stretching her collar in desperation to cool down.

"It only ever felt right with you. Will you be my girlfriend?"

Y/n grinned. "I'll be your prince charming."

[rozcdust]

Come back (to me)

Pairing: Takeomi Akashi x F!Reader

Genre: Crack

Word count: 1.2k

Warnings: Kidnapping, violence, guns being pointed at someone’s face

You get kidnapped, and the kidnappers send Takeomi the tape. You’re not happy about the money asked for your rerturn.

Kokonoi was the first to arrive at work that day, per usual.

At 11:36 fucking a.m.

The meeting was supposed to start at 10, but everyone really knew that meant it’ll start anywhere from 11 a.m. to 7 p.m.

Fuck’s sake.

Honestly, he should start charging everyone a late fee. How is he supposed to arrive fashionably late with a Pink Drink from Starbucks if every other motherfucker isn’t even there?

Jesus help him.

As he sips his drink, considering just calling everyone one by one to scream in their face, he slams the door to the building open, something snagging at the entrance.

He huffs, assuming the carpet got caught in the door, but as he looks down to correct whatever was wrong, he only finds an envelope there.

He raises an eyebrow.

Picking it up, he inspects it, gently pressing the envelope between his fingers to ensure there wasn’t anything explosive in there, but all he felt is a small, long oval lump.

Turning the envelope around, there was no return address, but Takeomi’s name was written on it in shaky, barely legible handwriting.

Well.

Koko decided to take a plunge, and ripping open the envelope with his teeth, he raised an eyebrow at what he found.

A USB stick.

It couldn’t be anything good.

Fuck.

He better call him.

Takeomi bounced his leg, waiting for the laptop Kokonoi provided to accept and open up its content.

A pop-up opened up, with three files creatively titled ‘video1.avi’, ‘video2.avi’ and ‘video3.avi’ being the only content.

Takeomi took a long, ragged breath as Kokonoi paced behind him, biting his nails, and clicked on the first one.

His stomach churned.

It depicted you, in a dingy warehouse, bound to a chair and duct tape over your mouth, makeup smeared and eyes red and puffy as tears streamed down your face, a man wearing a face mask standing next to you with a gun pointed at your head.

“Well, as you can see, Akashi,” An unfamiliar voice spoke behind the camera, chuckling, “We got something that belongs to you. J, take that shit off her mouth.”

The man standing next to you ripped the duct tape off, visibly making you flinch as a loud sob escaped your mouth, head hung low, shoulders shaking.

Kokonoi cursed behind Takeomi as Takeomi gulped, panic flooding his every sense.

“Please…” Finally, you spoke, teary eyes looking up at the camera, more sobs following, “Please, I don’t know anything!”

“We don’t give a shit about information.” The man next to you, J, scoffed, pressed the gun harder into your temple.

Takeomi felt like he’s been shot.

He knew you were a mistake, he should have kept you away, he shouldn’t have gotten involved with you in the first place, look where that has gotten you- Where it has gotten him.

He found comfort in the fact that besides the tears and smeared makeup, you seemed okay, there were no bruises or cuts visible, so at least they didn’t harm you.

Yet.

He’ll hunt those bastards down and tear them apart limb by limb if they touch a hair on your head.

“We got your bitch, Akashi, and there’s a price to pay for her.” The man behind the camera laughed.

“Please, Omi, help me…” You whimpered out in fear, eyes shut as you tried to collect yourself, “Please, I have an exam on Tuesday, I can’t fail, Takeomi, I’ll have to retake the year! Baby, please…”

Kokonoi quirked an eyebrow.

You’ve got a fucked up sense of priorities, besides, he’s pretty sure your professor would have taken ‘Being held hostage’ as a valid enough excuse for not attending the exam.

The sick bastard next to you laughed.

“J, untie her hands. Give her the ransom note.”

The man in the mask did as asked, letting you rub your sore wrists for a second before shoving a notepad into your hands.

You flinch, taking a shaky breath, but quickly rubbing the tears away with the back of your hand, your eyes flicking down, beginning to read.

“Akashi,” You stop, letting out another sob, “If you ever want to see your whore alive again-“

You seemingly broke down again, bawling and whimpering, tears dripping off your cheeks onto your lap.

“Leave 6 million yen-“

You stopped crying to make a face of confusion, looking up and glancing at the man still pointing a gun at your head, and the man behind the camera.

“Sorry, mister kidnapper, I don’t mean to tell you how to do your job but- 6? Really?” You raised an eyebrow, wiping the newly formed tears away, “Is that like, a going rate in the industry or…?”

The man in a mask furrowed his brows, insecurely looking at the man behind the camera.

The guy behind the camera cleared his throat.

“Um, there isn’t really an industry? It’s just what we… We thought would be an appropriate amount?”

“Bruh.”

“Like, you’re just some whore Akashi keeps around, no? 6 seems plenty-“

Takeomi clearly saw the look in your eye shift from deep, damning fear into annoyance.

He breathed a sigh of relief.

There she goes.

“First off, I am not a whore, I am the whore. Second, 6 million? Bitch- That’s all you think I’m worth?!” Yelling, you slammed the notepad onto your knees, “Are you fucking for real? Not even like, 10?! Or 20? A nice round number? 6? 6?!”

You started untying your feet, the man in the mask pulling the safety off his gun, an alarmed look on his face.

“Bitch, I don’t know who the fuck think you are but-“

“Get that shit out of my fucking face! You’re being such a fucking beta male right now, I swear to-“ Without a second thought, you smacked the gun out of the man’s hand with the notepad, standing up and continuing to beat the man with now rolled-up notepad.

The video cut off.

“Your bitch is fucking insane.” Kokonoi muttered, standing right behind Takeomi right now.

Takeomi hummed in agreement as he clicked on the second video.

It was just a minute and twenty seconds of you somehow getting ahold of a leg chair and still hitting the masked man.

Oh well.

Video three.

It depicted a now sobbing man, different from the one previously holding a gun to your head.

His voice was the same as the one previously holding the camera.

“Please, Akashi, we fucked up, take her back-“

“Bitch, what you crying about? You look like you cry when you cum too- Jesus fucking- Give me that before I- Hi Omi!” You wrestled out the camera from the man’s hands, shoving him to the ground before graciously offering the guy a few more kicks.

You look up at the camera and smile.

“Hey babe, so, I know this seemed scary and all, no worries though, I will call them an ambulance.” You turn to look back at the masked man, who was clutching both his ribs and his crotch, curled up on the ground, “I may have gone overboard, but oh well. 6 million? Can you fucking imagine? The disrespect- Anyway, I know we had an argument a few days ago, but pinky promise I’ll make it up to you, see you today at 9? Okay, cool cool, send my love to Kaku, mwah mwah, bye!”

The video cut off.

Takeomi sighed.

Yeah, he shouldn’t have been worried.

Crazy and stupid really is his type.

🔖Taglist:

@dilf-city @wakasa-wifey @rinsie @kisekihany @bajifairyy @cryszus @r-xochitl @graythecoffeebean @yukihime-mikeys-girl @mukounisuru-gashadokuro @sunahyejin @haikyuu-simps-assemble @yamaguccitadashi @minoozi @trashmemebitch @frogtits1 @sup-zfam @whydohumansss @xashiui @bontens-whore @nqctre @lumi-does-some-stuff @hana-patata @hxked @erza-uzumaki @sh4nn @sisnot @soushswag @kneeapartman @anahryal @reiners-milkbiddies @satsuri3su @aretheea @bluerskiees @luvjiro @sanchezbloodline @a-toxic-person @lostsomewhereinthegarden @genderfluidkurapika

Requested by @berrychan03

a/n: this is meant to be read as part of Waste It On Me universe but can be read alone 🤧 ALSO THANK YOU FOE THIS REQUEST IT WAS SO FUN TO WRITE OH MY GOD- 😩😩😩💕

[up-to-some-good]

Noted

So I accidentally took January off....and it feels like I have run out of creativity....but we're back and we're going to do our best. Written for @wolfstarmicrofic 8 February - Arrow (~700 words)

8 February 1974

Waking up after the full moon was always difficult. It was worse at home, where Remus had less space to roam than was available in the Shack, but it still wasn't easy at Hogwarts. The bigger space didn't entirely stop the wolf from attacking himself, nor did it mean the transformation between forms was painless. Madame Pomfrey did her best sith his injuries, but he was always in pain the next day, and the lack of sleep didn't help.

He always missed a day of school after the moon, much to his chagrin. Remus always begged to go to class, no matter how sore or tired he was, but Madame Pomfrey was always firm in keeping him back for a day and forcing him to spend the next week catching up on work.

It was halfway through second year when the notes started appearing on his bed after the moon. When Remus came back to the dorm, he'd find a stack of parchment on his bed - neatly written notes of everything he'd missed when he was away. They were beautifully done: neatly printed words, coloured coded, and full of diagrams with little arrows dictating the wand movements of various spells.

He wasn't sure who was writing them. They were way too neat to be from James - whose handwriting was barely legible on a good day - and Peter hated using coloured ink even when instructed to do so. Sirius's handwriting was beautiful cursive, but he never took notes and Remus couldn't read cursive to start with. For a while, he suspected it was Lily, who was by far the most attentive student of his friends and had lovely handwriting. But the he was her pulling out a muggle pen in Transfiguration to make notes, and gave up his theory. The mysterious notes were unmistakably written with a quill, marred with a few small smudges and ink blots.

So Remus gave up on trying to find the mysterious note taker at the beginning of their third year, deciding to thank them when and if they ever revealed themself to him.

The second full moon of 1974 was thankfully a good one. Madame Pomfrey released him from the hospital wing as lessons ended for the day, comfortable that Remus would go back to the dorm to rest as he couldn't get to class. He limped to Gryffindor tower slowly, hoping to find the dorm empty and quiet.

It was certainly quiet when he got there, but not empty. The door was open, and he stepped in to find Sirius standing by his bed with a stack of papers. He pointed his wand at the notes and muttered a spell, before leaving them on Remus's pillow and turning to leave, spotting his friend at the door.

"Remus! You're back early. How are you feeling?" Sirius asked.

Remus ignored the question. "You've been making notes for me."

Sirius blushed and avoided eye contact.

"Well, I...," he stammered. "Yes, I have. I noticed you were always struggling to catch up after the moon, so I thought I'd help you out if I could. I hope they've been okay?"

"They're brilliant!" Remus exclaimed. "They're always so detailed and easy to follow. I've been desperate to find out who it was so I could thank them. Where the hell did you learn to write notes like that?"

If possible, Sirius's face grew redder.

"I, well, I don't really know," he said. "I just tried to write down what was happening in my brain and that's what came out. I had to find a spell to change it from cursive to print, though. I knew they'd be useless if I didn't."

Remus grinned and moved to pull Sirius into a hug.

"Thank you so much," he whispered into his friend's shoulder. "You didn't have to go out of your way for me. I know you hate making notes, but I really appreciate it."

Sirius squeezed him back before pulling away to finally make eye contact.

"I told you last year, Remus," he said quietly. "If there's anything I can do to make the moons easier, I'll do it. Anything."

[pumpkinsy0]

how do u think the gang + sheperds write

i am NOT good enough to write it out so ill say it

pony and angelas hand writing is pretty neat, pony writes in cursive, angela can but she doesnt like it much and so her handwriting is more so bubbly (yes i gave her my handwriting🙄🙄)

tim and darry also write in cursive but its always like a lil hard, for NO reason, the table prolly shakes when they write, if they had a pen u can prolly hear them put the dot

johnnys handwriting is neat?????but also small so u would prolly have to ask the guy what the hell his paper is saying, never learned cursive, dont even know how to write it

dally, barely has written anything if imma b honest, its just so messy and he ALSO writes hard

steve and two bits handwriting??? tbh nothin special, they write fast tho so u have to do double takes on what the hell ur reading, but youll get it

soda just rushes w his handwriting, wants to get it over w, hes that guy to try new things w his handwriting almost everytime u see it

curlys is messy but he does TRY to write it well, looks a lik wonky here n there but u CAN read it,sometimes the letters r just different sizes, but it IS legible, MOSTLY, sometimes he dont even know what the hell he put on that paper, cant write cursive, doesnt care to

[arty-ffxiv]

Count(Down) to Dawntrail: Day I - A Realm Reborn

For a while now, I've been daydreaming about what life would be like for Kupa had the timeline played out a bit differently and if she was chosen as a Warrior of Light.

In this AU, Kupa was still born a Moogle and transformed via a fantasia, though this took place shortly after the calamity. At the beginning of ARR, she's a new adventurer completing odd jobs for gil.

Hear. Feel. Think.

Kupa halted her patrol through the Central Shroud, looking around in confusion. There was no one else on the trail; no source from where the voice had come. Her long Viera ears picked up no unusual sounds- the flies buzzed in the lazy spring afternoon; the river flowed cheerily to her right. No footsteps, no breath- nothing to indicate the words were spoken aloud.

Spinning around to check behind her, Kupa was both relieved and unnerved to confirm that she was alone in this area of the Shroud. She let out a steady breath, unaware that she’d been holding it.

Taking the moment to herself, Kupa  adjusted the courier satchel slung over her shoulder and brushed her fingers against the smooth grain of her shortbow for reassurance. She noted to herself that the voice had been feminine and ethereal.

Unfamiliar.

Not the voice of the Elementals, as she was so familiar with from her time as a Moogle.

Strange, she thought, that the voice felt so… warm. Comforting, even.

She continued forward, along the trail onward to Gridania. Another day, another parcel to deliver.

Such was the life of a fledgling adventurer.

The air around her burned; each breath seared her lungs. Kupa felt a sweat droplet run down her back. Fear gripped her as she took in the hulking form.

Before her, at the centre of this burning nightmare, stood Ifrit.

They expect me to best this beast?

Thoughts of the Scions gave her pause. Minfilia would not have sent her for this mission if she doubted her capabilities. She couldn't let that trust be misplaced. She wouldn’t let them down.

Kupa gritted her teeth and tightened her grip on her bow. She started forwards.

It was time.

Kupa woke in a haze of pain.

She felt heavy, sore- but worst was the searing heat from her arm. Kupa's warm brown eyes fluttered open and she blinked away the last of her lingering, befuddled dreams. A Lalafel sat on a stool beside her bed, back turned; their attention was on the figure on the bed opposite Kupa's.

Shifting to sit up, Kupa let out a low groan, wincing as the heat flared into pain. It was white hot- bright. Blinding. She heard a quick intake of breath as the Lalafel swung around to face her.

“You’re awake! Oh, thank the Twelve,” Tataru's spoke, relieved.

“What happened? Thal's Balls, I hurt!”

“It's no wonder you hurt! You barely escaped The Praetorium- you got caught in the final blast. The two of you'd be dead if Lyse and Papalymo hadn't pulled you out of the Magitek wreckage."

Kupa stared at Tataru, confused. Then her gaze shifted to look at the figure in the opposite bed; Thandred lay resting, bruised but breathing rhythmically.

Tataru picked up on her confusion, "You don’t remember?”

"... I remember the Ultima Weapon. Lahabrea, too. I... was in a tunnel?" Kupa frowned, shaking her head, "Well, whatever happened- I'm full glad that we' both still breathing."

Tataru nodded, taking a pitcher from the bedside and pouring a glass of water for Kupa. She hadn't realized how parched she was until she heard the steady flow from pitcher to cup, and accepted it from Tataru gratefully.

"You'll need a few days to rest, at least," Tataru began, picking up a small note in barely legible handwriting, "You're badly bruised- let's see here.... second degree burns to right shoulder and bicep, bruising to lower right ribcage- thankfully no broken bones there- and some minor cuts and bruising to your face. You're very lucky to have walked away from all that with such minimal damage."

"It doesn't feel minimal, especially the burns," Kupa let out a pained chuckle. She nodded to Thancred, and Tataru looked back to him.

"Concussed, but sleeping now. You've both been in and out of sleep for the past few bells."

Tataru looked back to Kupa, her expression tightening. "... There is something else, though."

"Oh?"

"I'm sorry, Kupa- we know how much it meant to you, after Noraxia's death-" Tataru held out two long, thin black rods to her; Kupa accepted it in confusion before her stomach dropped.

Her bow. She felt the heavy pressure of tears behind her eyes as she beheld the first and final gift she'd received from the little Sylph. Her dear friend, who had been taken too soon.

Kupa's familiar, faithful wooden bow had been snapped in two and was badly charred; the bowstring and leather grips lost.

The dam holding back her grief and aching loss burst; Kupa doubled over the remnants of her bow and wept.

[lady-astras]

Solitary Confinement - Febuwhump Day 2

Face your fears, was what Gem had written, her flowy handwriting shaky and barely legible - the last thing she’d left before having gone no-contact with everybody. Etho had been quietly petrified, then, because what could hurt The GeminiSlay so badly? But now looking at it…

Twenty-four hours, that’s all he had to do. The slip of paper vanished into smoke in his hand, leaving no trace. Just one day in this room? He could do it.

The heavy metal door clanged shut and a deep, resounding voice said, “Face your fears.”

Etho didn’t fear the dark.

This wasn’t so bad, he’d spent more time alone in the wilderness. The start of season nine, trying to prove his self-worth wasn’t even that bad. So what was this room trying to tell him?

Well, it was a small room. Once the door had closed, stealing the sliver of sunlight with it, he couldn’t see a single thing. He checked what time it was but found that his communicator had been taken.

That was when the first hint of panic wormed its way in. No contact with the outside world.

Twenty-four hours left.

~~

Humming songs to himself and coming up with new base ideas only sustained you so far. It wasn’t like he could write it down or type it up anyway. But again, it wasn't so bad. Maybe he’d take a nap.

Twenty-three hours left.

~~

He couldn’t sleep. Well, if his judgement of time passing was right, it was only around 1:00 PM - four hours since he’d been chucked in here. Normally, taking a nap right now, or before now, would be out of the question.

Staring at the wall wasn’t so entertaining, though.

Twenty hours left.

~~

It was too dark. It wasn’t even like a moonless night sky with no torches lighting up the surrounding area, because then the pinpricks of starlight could be grounding. No, here it was so dark that the seams of the walls blended into each other. Rather like falling into the void, when you were far enough that you couldn’t see the end islands any more and your elytra had failed you.

Etho was curled into a corner just to keep some semblance of sanity - being able to tell where the floor was, and where two of the walls were, was like those little white specks in the sky for him. 

Maybe he could try counting to pass the time. One, two, three, four, five…

Sixteen hours left.

~~

The higher the numbers ticked up, the more nervous he got. How long was he going to be here? At a rate of maybe one number per second, he’d gotten to one thousand. Doing the maths that was… sixteen minutes? Seventeen, almost? No, no, that couldn’t be right. No way. Oh, it was… well… 

Time was so slow, too slow.

He’d given up a while ago.

Fourteen hours left.

~~

Void, Etho had to be the most pathetic sentient being ever, didn’t he?

His tears weren’t even justified. If it were BDubs in here, the little mossy man would have found a way to entertain himself, maybe crack jokes to the dark air around him, make whoever was listening laugh. But here he was, still curled next to the wall, silent tears dripping into his black cloth mask. The dark was cold, pressing him further into the corner, hard to breathe, think, function. It was leering at him, telling him to face the dark and lonely, grow up and be a real man.

The room was so impossibly big, and yet it was too tiny altogether.

An audible sob wrenched from him, he clutched his soft white hair almost desperately, to feel something, anything, other than this dark SILENCE.

This was going to be the rest of his day, week, year, life. It wasn’t going to end, because that’s how things always ended. Dark, silent, loneliness.

He wanted to scream, cry, beg for mercy, and escape.

Maybe he should take his mask off. It might be easier to breathe. His tears dripped down his face even more, landing on the corners of his lips, so he could taste the salt, that pathetic salt.

He gasped for air.

Nine hours left.

~~

Were those voices in his head? Or were his ears processing them? Were they his, or was someone coming for him? Had it been time yet?

No, they were just his pitiful whimpers for escape.

He was so tired…

Five hours left.

~~

There was a click. Etho looked up, blinking his bleary eyes. He had nothing left to cry, but everything hurt. He’d been sitting still for too long. The room was flooded with bright light from the open door, that metal door.

Everything was too bright. It hurt, it hurt, make it stop, MAKE IT STOP-

“ETHO!” A familiar voice shouted, footsteps sounding on the black concrete floor. They were too loud, he covered his ears. Slowly, slowly, he lifted his head to adjust to the light.

BDubs was knelt next to him, wavering uncertainly - not sure whether to put his arm around Etho or leave it be in case it’d scare him.

Etho made his decision for him, tentatively grasping his hand and tugging him closer into a hug. BDubs obliged, pulling his taller friend in a full embrace, murmuring quiet nothings. It helped to hear a familiar voice, a soothing drone on. He looked up at his friend’s face, twisted into a gentle smile.

Between his senseless murmurings, he could pick up, “If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine, I’m here for you.”

That’s when it clicked.

The start of season nine hadn’t been that bad because he could talk to anyone at any time. They were all at the push of a button, any time of day because at least one person - cough, Xisuma - was always awake (those insomniac types). 

There wasn’t much time he’d ever spend alone, and it scared him to be unsure whether anyone was even there for him.

So he leaned into BDubs’ warm touch and sighed contentedly.

[vigilskeep]

What are Arthur and Minerva’s grimoires like?

minerva’s was originally a simple standard issue circle grimoire, a small leatherbound red book with the gold chantry insignia. i imagine all apprentices receive the same, with the option to upgrade to something more personalised once you’ve passed your harrowing and are worth spending unique resources on, but minerva was recruited so soon after hers that never got the chance. it became increasingly unwieldy to fill with her absurd number of new and generally illegal spells, and it’s a messy contrast of her neat, no-nonsense, increasingly small handwriting and every scrap of parchment that’s been bound into it by a mixture of stitching, magic and force of will

she hates the idea of replacing it, complaining it would be a waste of time to write it all out again, but truly unable to admit what’s most precious to her—irving’s careful notes, jowan’s childish doodles, an encouraging remark from karl, amell’s quick barely legible first floor library tomorrow fourth bell i have a new theory you will despise, a dry disdainful scrawl from morrigan on shapeshifting, anders’ advice on her single heal spell that scribbles a rendering of ser pounce-a-lot over wynne’s sharp cursive, and a few rough sheets of velanna copying out some of her spells to practise writing before she tries recording her dalish stories, offering spiky commentary as she does so. even the pages where minerva first began to work out the battlemage specialisation, which i hc she invented. for all her lauded pragmatism you can pry this old grimoire from her cold dead hands. it does get a shiny new blue and silver grey warden binding when it finally threatens to fall apart though

arthur did make it past apprentice, but even before that he had his grimoire, a white book emblazoned with the trevelyan family crest and motto. it was one of his last birthday gifts from his father. his handwriting is much less neat than minerva’s, an irrepressible fault from a poor mixture of trained cursive and impatience, which plagues him to no end when he tries to help lilith with her studies. the white isn’t the most practical for life as an apostate, he admits, and it does happen to have a smear of mud here and there, not to mention a stab through it from a templar’s blade with a little of his blood to boot, but he can’t throw the poor scuffed thing away just because it saved his life, can he? he’s pretty sure none of it is the blood he used for blood magic. and it’s basically still readable. vivienne despairs of him

[bettsfic]

craft essay a day #5

my response to this one maybe derailed a little.

"On Imagination" by Mary Ruefle

beginner | intermediate | advanced | masterclass 

filed under: process, poetry

summary

first i must describe to you the physical object that is this essay:

it is a chapbook (published by Sarabande Books, an indie poetry press i really admire), which means it is more or less a staple-bound pamphlet. there is a goat on the cover. inside, on each even-numbered page, is a picture: an ocean wave, a lettuce leaf, the night sky, a bed, 3 fish, a bird in a tree, a pie, 4 dyed eggs, a human ribcage, grass, trees, a slug, and the goat that is on the cover, whose presence permeates the essay.

on the back of the chapbook, instead of blurbs, there is a quote in very small font:

"My imagination was roaming at sunset and placed his bare foot on a blade of withered grass, which ran into it like a thorny needle, and injured him."

this quote appears not to be attributed, which makes me think i should know what it's from, and i don't.

Ruefle has a collection of essays called Madness, Rack, & Honey (published by Wave Books, another great poetry press) which is one of my favorite craft books and i highly recommend it. it'll be a while before i summarize the chapters, though, since i only recently finished reading it.

i've been lucky enough to attend several of her lectures, and although i got a lot out of them, when i go back and look at my notes, they are utterly indecipherable:

partly this is because, as you can see, my handwriting is not legible. but it's also partly because this particular lecture was kinda bonkers. i've been waiting for her to publish it in written form but i don't think she has yet. "Hell's Bells" is my second favorite of her lectures (Ruefle's lectures and essays are one and the same), my favorite being "On Fear" which i'm sure i'll write about in a future post.

still laughing at "does the artist...become time?" with the star beside it (which in my notes always indicates an Action Item, so in 2018 i clearly intended to Do Something about becoming time). also "put a hole in meaning - give space, aerate?" then in pink, "(how?)" i also apparently intended to Do Something about "Beginning of universe was striking of tremendous bell."

another lecture of hers i attended was a recreation of John Cage's "Lecture on Nothing," and i am ashamed to say that it took me so, so long to realize it was literally a lecture on nothing. i wrote like 3 pages of notes and about a half hour in, i flipped through the pages and realized literally nothing of substance was being said. and i was furious. like, why am i wasting my time here? and i realized i was supposed to be having a reaction to it, and thinking about the nature of the concept of a lecture at a creative writing workshop, and what am i even doing here, etc.

in retrospect, that spoke well to the "Hell's Bells" lecture, which, for me, was all about how listening is sometimes just about hearing, and not trying to make meaning of all that we hear. as someone with an audio processing problem who has to attend a lot of readings and can't understand a word of them, it made me feel a lot better. like i could attend a reading just to appreciate the voice of the writer (which Ruefle likened to a bell), and not what's being said.

at the end of the lecture on nothing, Ruefle took questions, and responded to each of them with the answers provided in the original lecture. it was quite a time.

back to "On Imagination."

in any Ruefle essay/lecture, there is not much to summarize because they function more or less as poems: each is a series of thoughts or anecdotes on a general topic, and never firmly declare their point. however, on the first page, she does make a pretty big declaration:

"I am going to tell you now, before I begin, what my conclusion is to my thoughts on the imagination: I believe there is no difference between thinking and imagining, and that they are one."

to me, that's the kind of statement that's so simple it seems almost meaningless, but i know if i consider it long enough, i'll reach a deeper conclusion about it. since i finished reading this essay 37 minutes ago, i have no such deeper conclusion as of yet.

i appreciate that on page one, she also points out that thought is only ever an interpretation of reality, and words exist only to conjure meaning in the imagination. when a person says the word "tree" to another person, the recipient of that word can mentally conclude or conjure the object that is a tree. we can always refer to a tree, but in speaking it or thinking it, it does not become real.

she declares that imagination is not necessarily good; imagining things can hurt us as equally as help us, and we don't really have control of it.

"...the imagination has its own life and its own autonomy, the imagination is not what you play with, the imagination plays with you."

she introduces an anecdote in which a poet, after a reading, is asked, "is that a real poem, or did you make it up?" and concludes her point with a fact that punched me right in the face:

"Real things are made things."

she goes on to talk about an elementary school reading primer from 1880, Ukranian dyed eggs, Johnny Cash, a misinterpretation of the bible by Keats, and a goat in Emily Dickenson's attic. each of these, somehow, connect and make sense, yet i cannot attempt to do so in a (not so) brief summary.

"Imagination, deep in each of us, can give us what we need and want, that which we dream of, the reality of love and communion, help in our tired loneliness."

yeah :(

she notes that many believe some people have more imagination than others, and that's why there are artists and not-artists, but she claims we all have the same amount of imagination; it's just that some of us don't discriminate between "imaginative and unimaginative acts" and that paying close attention to the mundane "paradoxically opens a new door to the imaginative."

i am having trouble figuring out how the end of the essay is about imagination. she talks about how, in her old age, she feels isolated in her interests, and that because she has a limited future, she's only motivated to dwell in the present.

"All I can tell you is that at long last I am myself and free, even if isolated, and I am happy when I want to be and sad when I feel like it, and about the only thing that troubles me is knowing how many people on earth do not have that privilege...and to these I bow and for these I pray."

my thoughts

this got kind of personal, so i'm putting it under a cut.

i rated this essay advanced, not because i think it's hard to understand, but that it goes beyond the work of beginner and intermediate essays, which focus primarily on mechanics and concepts and how to get the work down on paper. this essay makes no real claim about writing, and i imagine wouldn't help anyone looking for advice on how to write.

a few days ago i wrote about Smiley's introduction in 13 Ways to Look at the Novel. that, coupled with the Ruefle essay, have fucked me up a little. in Smiley's intro, she talks about how she always had one foot in the fictional worlds of her novels at the cost of her presence in reality. in Ruefle's essay, she talks about the uncontrollability of imagination. i've never considered myself a creative person; i think in expected patterns and can't really devise anything truly novel. that's why i consider myself more a teacher than a writer--i'm better at fostering creativity in others than developing it in myself. i am, however, an imaginative person. i never stop imagining. i'm so imaginative that existing in reality is sometimes unbearable. even things that make me happy--seeing my family, hanging out with friends, reading a book--come second to dwelling (drowning?) in my imagination. i have to pry myself away to go do those things. when i'm really into something i'm working on, i can write over 10k in a day. i can write from the second i wake up at 9am to the moment, usually at 3am or so, my brain can no longer make clear sentences, stopping only throughout to eat a spoonful of peanut butter and maybe reply to a text.

these are the kinds of days i live for. they make me truly happy. and yet there's such an enormous cost to them: i'm beginning to have hand problems, and i have so little control of writing that i can't force myself to stop and let it heal (i did upgrade to an ergonomic keyboard and mouse but they're not helping as much as i'd hoped); i'm no nutritionist, but i'm pretty sure 3 tablespoons of peanut butter a day and walking fewer than 100 steps is not particularly healthy; and big picture, i want to get married and have kids, and that's not going to happen if i'm spending all my time in my imagination with fictional characters getting married and having kids. and if i somehow against all odds do get married and have kids, will i be able to be fully present with them, or will i always in the state i am now, counting down the seconds when i can escape reality and return to the peace of my own head?

i think this is a conflict i'll always have, because ultimately i'm writing work i'm proud of to an audience that (i hope) appreciates it. writing and being read is the greatest privilege i can imagine. but i'm also always thinking about my dad, who died at 59 after enduring years of agonizing pain and a lifetime of trauma and depression, and how he never got to do a fraction of the things he wanted. i imagine myself at the same age less than 30 years from now with the same fate, if i am even so lucky to make it to that far. i'm in this between space of the hopefulness of being young, of the gross entitlement of believing things will keep getting better for me; and the hopelessness of ptsd, the kernel of doubt that remains even after so long in recovery, that joy and success are never owed to me. rationally i know both of these to be true, that there will be some good and some bad, and whatever happens will never turn out as i expect. and yet that doesn't abate the conflict or quell the fear that the conflict creates.

it is probably a bad idea to write about my deepest fears and insecurities on a blog with thousands of followers. it's easy to be misinterpreted and taken out of context. honesty is totally antithetical to branding or gaining a following. and yet i think i'd rather be known than not. i think i'd always prefer to take a risk in the hope of being understood.

i'm sorry i have no conclusions or advice or anything helpful to say here. but imagination is a big thing. it's the biggest thing. in allowing us the power to interpret and create, it might be the only thing.

craft essay a day tag | cross-posted on AO3 | ask me something

[pinkiepiebones]

Dear Zombie, It is I, Robby, I guess? I'm not particularly accustomed to being called that, but I suppose it's never too late to start. I've heard the act of naming cements psychological ownership. Thus, you giving me a name might express your desire to own me? That is somewhat unsettling, considering my recent history, but also flattering, so I'll take it. You seem like, as they say, "cool people," so I'll trust your intentions are pure. And Robby is much better than "The Fly Patient." Do I get to give you a nickname, too? (Yes, I want to own you, my dear internet friend, but in a non-creepy sense of "I'm glad you are in my life and I hope you stay there of your own free will.") How about Z? Could be read as either Zet or Zee, whichever you preffer. I feel a little odd giving a prompt about myself, but here goes: Would you please give me a cloudlessly happy memory of my daughter? Sincerely yours, Robby

Hey, you!

Oh gosh I don't want to own you. I can barely take care of myself, I don't think I could handle owning or being in any way in control of... No, no, I threw "Robby" at you only because there's already a "Robert" in my life and I've known him for 25 years, so he has seniority in my dumb little head I guess.

... Z's good. Simple. Hmm. "Robby and Z" sounds like a children's television program. I bet we'd make a cool show though! Teach kids about, I dunno, art and baking? Mmm... impressionist cookies...

I dunno if I can write this right, my friend. Here goes:

Lillian Elizabeth Renfield has pushed her small desk in to Papa's work room. She is quiet cunning for a four -nearly five!- year old, and moved her desk bit by bit as the day went on- the world outside was covered in deep snow, too deep to play in with Mama and Papa, too deep to build snowknights to fight a snowdragon. Mama and Papa are fussing dinner and the wood stove in the kitchen. So, Lillian took it upon herself to move to Papa's work room, and do business as Papa did.

She stands on the scuffed toes of her shoes and pulls a book from Papa's shelf. It is a rather boring book, with big words and no pictures, but she carries it with the same reverence she gives her story books and places it on her little desk. She looks at Papa's desk and situates the book as he has done with another equally boring book. She sits down and takes a crayon in her little hand and does what Papa does- she turns the pages, makes faces, and scribbles notes.

After a full two minutes, she stops. Goodness, grown-ups are boring! She replaces the book on the shelf and returns to her desk. Papa writes and reads so much, he must be so very bored at his office in the city. Lillian holds up her scribbles and ponders. Then, an idea strikes her. She plucks a fresh piece of drawing paper from her drawing pad.

'Dear Papa,' she writes with her favourite red crayon, 'I have tried to be a lawyer. It is very dull. I thank you for being a lawyer. You are a good man. I want to be a princess or maybe a writer. Not a lawyer. On the back of this page I have drawn us fighting a dragon. Please take it with you on your next bisness trip and know I am with you.'

Lillian looks over her writing. Her handwriting is well-practiced; Mama makes sure Lillian takes her time to write "legibly," whatever that means. She nods, approving of her message, and signs it.

'With all of the love in the world,

Lillian E. Renfield'

She turns the paper over and draws herself and her father fighting a dragon, as she had indicated on the letter. She barely finishes colouring the dragon's bat-like wings when Mama calls her for supper. She hastily folds her letter and tucks it into Papa's work bag, then hurries to the dining room.

[cosmichorrorsarestillnicerthanme]

Breaking And Entering: Electric Boogaloo A Sequel To First Meeting

\/-\/-\/-\/-\/-\/-\/-\/-\/-\/-\/-\/-\/-\/-\/-\/-\/-\/-\/-\/-\/-\/-\/-\/

I M P O R T ANT -A N N O U N C E M E N T- B E L OW

~We Have Such Sights To Show You!~

Rosaria is extremely confused about why you, a kind and respectable person with a good job and a kind heart would have a crush on HER of all people, someone who is as rude, crass, and strange as her someone who is… broken goods.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

“Stop pacing Rosaria you’re going to burn a hole into the carpet” Barbra told Rosaria in an attempt to placate her.

Rosaria promptly ignores this and continues to wear a hole in the probably very expensive carpet.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Why, why, why, why? Why would someone like you have a crush on someone like her!

She needs to find out!

She WILL find out!

Directly from the source!

So you know what time it is right?

Breaking and entering along with looking through your private possessions: electric boogaloo

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

“It’s decided” Rosaria stated to herself.

“What is?” Barbra asked, already deeply concerned with where this is going.

“I’m going to break into their house… again” Rosaria said as she opened the window.

“Rosaria nO!” Barbra yelled as Rosaria hopped out the window.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Rosaria made a beeline for your house over the roofs of Mondstadt with a thousand questions in her mind.

Most importantly when and why.

When and Why did you develop a crush on her.

Well either way she is going to find out.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Rosaria easily broke into your home while you were out for the day and immediately set to work.

The first thing she did was flip through the journal from last time but that left her with nothing besides the information that this was your tenth journal. 

So Rosaria did the natural thing and read through the nine other journals starting with the first. Inside of the first the handwriting was barely legible but she could luckily still read it.

The first passage that mentioned her read “Grandmaster Varka brought a girl who looked the same age as me back to Mondstadt. She looked sad. I tried talking to her. She was rude. I don’t like her all that much. Her name is Rosaria”

Rosaria vaguely recalled you attempting to talk to her and make a few horrible jokes to make her laugh and give her some Sweet Madame, Rosaria also recalled that she made several rude remarks to you for your trouble.

The next passage that mentioned her still had atrocious handwriting and read “I saw Rosaria tonight. She was feeding the Cats. She looked very pretty! 

How late do you stay up!? She only feeds the cats when it's very late or… early, AND PRETTY! No one has ever called her pretty, a bitch sure, but PRETTY!

The final passage that mentioned her had a drawing of a small familiar stone.

The same stone that she has above her heart right now.

FUCK!

“SO YOU WERE THE ONE TO GIVE IT TO ME ON WINDLUME ALL THOSE YEARS AGO DURING THE BLIND GIFT EXCHANGE VARKA SUCKERED ME INTO!” Rosaria screamed in her head.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

As she continued to read entries in your journals she realized you were a large part of your life and her apart yours.

Almost like a pair of dancers who never touch twirling around the streets and plains in this land of freedom.

…

Wait a goddamn minute.

If she has your blind Windblume gift… that means…

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Rosaria whipped around and scanned your room for the Item she had hoped to never see again.

-=-=-==-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

And yup.

There it was.

A small lopsided sculpture made of wood depicting the legendary creature known only as rabbit, in the old times it was feared for its destructive power and love for carrots.

And for the first time In her LIFE Rosaria blushed

The next thing she saw however was you.

Standing in the doorway.

Looking at her

Fuck

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Part Two DONE! GOD I really hope that part three comes to me a bit easier.

In Other News

I haven't been able to carve out the time I need to go through sumeru but if I'm lucky I'll have time this weekend if I do you guys can start sending me requests for those characters!

[negative-speedforce]

what does your OCs' handwriting look like? who has the best and who has the worst?

Siv: tight, efficient scrawl, fairly neat

Jay: is dyslexic, has extremely messy handwriting with lots of misspellings

Hailey: elegant yet concise cursive

Cassandra: ridiculously tiny cursive, very neat and to the point

Arya: doesn't even bother writing in any system that humans would understand

Esme: "girly" looping manuscript, dots all 'i's with either a heart or a star depending on her mood

Gina: definitely a contender for best handwriting, writes exclusively in cursive

Ember: surprisingly messy, but still legible

Cat: extremely messy cursive, no one can read it but her

Max: near indecipherable chicken scratch, a contender for worst handwriting

Kyle: Surprisingly neat, small tidy letters, occasionally forgets to cross his 't's and dot his 'i's and 'j's

Eric: Ridiculously neat, probably one of, if not the best handwriting out of the OCs, points deducted for being so neat that it creeps people out

Jacob: Fairly neat, tight, angular letters

Khalil: Concise, angled manuscript, a contender for best handwriting.

Antonio: Extremely messy, I mean, what do you expect, he's a twelve-year-old boy

Rania: Writes exclusively in Arabic so her English-speaking coworkers can't steal her work, delicate, graceful letters with a slight shakiness to them

Ameerah: Loose, sharp manuscript, fairly neat

Director Hawke: contender for best handwriting, tight and consise cursive

Meredith: a contender for worst handwriting, was never actually taught to write until it was like 14

Onnie: messy yet concise manuscript scrawl

Pippa: Messy, looping cursive

Jessi: looping, autopgraphical cursive, usually dots 'i's with hearts

Hyun-ki: graceful, wavy strokes, a contender for best handwriting

Liah: Starts neat, gets more sloppy the more she writes

Qiara: Does not write in any characters comprehensible to three-dimensional beings

Marie: arguably has the worst handwriting bc she is a doctor

Soraya: Tidy, efficient, no-nonsense manuscript

Thalia: Somewhere between neat and messy, not really anything to write home to mom about

Athena: Calligraphic looping cursive, usually dots 'i's with hearts or hearts

Laila: Extremely neat and efficient

Reyna: A contender for worst handwriting, no one can read it but her

Samira: Neat, dainty cursive, with hearts dotting the 'i's

Aldrich: Very neat caligraphy, mostly becuase he was born in the 1800s

Matt: Fairly messy, usually forgets to dot 'i's and cross 't's.

Sohelia: Rushed, angled manuscript, with letters so tiny you can barely read it.

Dolores: Angled, delicate cursive, very neat

Vanessa: Very neat, however, after being transformed into a giant monster then back into a human, her handwriting suffers from her being very awkward in her body

[dzamie-oc]

Named and Forgotten

Y'know, I don't write my ocs very often. Time to change that. Local Mary-Sue bothers his rival specifically to show off how medium-aware he is. This cat causes problems on purpose.

#

Kenneth could barely keep himself from burying his head in his hands. "Alright," he said to the cheetah-colored mistake of reality he considered his rival, "casting aside your "Fictional Relativity" nonsense, why should I believe you that we're fictional, too? I feel pretty real, after all."

"Well, I figured you might enjoy being correct about something for a change," Dzamie replied. Kenneth glared at him, hoping that maybe, this time, the katul would simply suddenly die and stay dead. Instead, he just shrugged. "But I figure you're asking for proof, so how's this?"

Dzamie snapped his fingers, and a green, three-ring binder appeared in his hand. "This," he gestured at it, "is a list of the named and forgotten." When he set it on Kenneth's desk, it kicked up a small gust that nearly blew off a few papers. "I suppose I could magically automate its update, but, honestly, it's more fun to catch the narrative looking away and do it manually before it comes back."

Despite himself, Kenneth reached for the binder, flipping it open to the first page. It was filled with names and short descriptions, in handwriting neater than he had expected. Strangely, the first few entries were listed as being meerkats. Normal meerkats. "You've been hanging out with Eris too much; her chaos has infected your brain." He turned the page. "…hey, wait, I recognize some of these names."

"Your old katul-hunting gang, right? The ones you razed my home village with?" The clearly-insane cat spoke as though discussing tomorrow's weather.

"Yeah. Huh, I wonder what happened to them."

"No clue, hopefully died. No offense taken, by the way."

"Unfortunate, I wish you'd taken some and left. So, how does this prove your point?"

Dzamie summoned a chair, gave it a second thought, then instead turned himself into a massive, blue snake - presumably, Kenneth thought with more than a twinge of annoyance, to rest in a way that would bother him the most. "Read some names out," he requested.

Kenneth raised an eyebrow, but looked back at the paper and read aloud all the names of his old buddies.

The snake shook his head, slowly. "Try again. Choose one name, and read for me the entire entry. Starting with the name."

"I don't see what this is supposed to prove. I'll start with-" Kenneth stopped, strangely. He knew the guy, he'd spent months, maybe years with him slaughtering the furred pests before, admittedly, mellowing out.

"The guy's name is-" and again. It wasn't like he couldn't read; the letters were perfectly legible, to the point where he almost envied his rival's penmanship.

"What? I know we've not talked in awhile, but c'mon, I know-" Kenneth worked his jaw. Did his old friend get himself cursed?

"Alright, then, I'll skip him and move onto-"

"Er, how about-"

"Okay, last one! Really simple Joe-Schmo type name! Right there, on the page! His name is-"

Kenneth slammed the binder shut, and he threw the thing at the katul. "Alright, you do it, then! Whatever the hell is wrong with this thing, anyway?!"

The blue snake rubbed his snout where the binder had hit against his coils, then turned back into the bipedal cheetah that Kenneth knew and loathed. "Oh, I can't directly say their names, either," he admitted, picking up and de-summoning the binder. "I just like knowing things that the narrative doesn't. Bit of a reversal, for once."

"And this is proof?"

"It's strong evidence. Unless you think someone individually cursed every single person in there not to have a name you can directly acknowledge. Including the meerkats."

Kenneth finally gave into the urge and planted his face directly into his hands. "Y'know what? I do not care. Please tell me you came here for something other than philosophy? I just cleaned and I'd prefer not to get your blood over everything."

Dzamie waved a hand dismissively. "Like you could land a good hit. Oh, that's right! I initially stopped by to mention that HM finally made good on his idle threat to eat an entire orphanage."

"By Fyoor's fire, why do you even-"

"Anyway, good luck with whatever politics stuff arises from that! I'm gonna go be literally anywhere else!" With a snap of his fingers, Dzamie was gone just a split-second before dozens of magical blades zipped through the space he used to be. Kenneth reinforced the soundproofing spell around his office, gripped his head tightly, and screamed.

[fancylances]

Oc Kiss Week / Day Two / Food

pairing: Nikolai Dragos/Yevgeniy “Geno Kazimir - Ravnica D&D OCs

.

Nikolai stands in his kitchen and realizes that he never fucking cooks.

It’s just like everything in his little barely-furnished whitestone in Precinct Two; hardly touched, until a certain curly-haired thief started staying the night (oh, who is he kidding; Geno never stays the whole night). And it has slowly become something lived-in instead of a place to hang his coat. Color appearing in small places, little touches of the man he loves slowly working themselves into his space. He’d thought he’d hate it. But he doesn’t. It makes his heart ache (seeing something of his, after waking up alone, and wishing he could have all of him).

So tonight, Nikolai Dragos intends to make dinner.

Earlier, he had swung by his parents’ shop in Downside. Tried for nearly an hour to dance around his true intentions, but his mother knows him too well. And he’d finally admitted a desperate need for a recipe. Aniya Dragos had pulled out an old book in her mother’s handwriting, proudly showing her youngest son for the first time.

“Who is it?” she had asked, looking lovingly at the side of his face as they pored over the book.

Nikolai had only slightly panicked, tossing back a: “Who’s who?”

“Niko,” she’d said softly, knowingly. “You’re a terrible liar. You have been since you were two.”

His pale face had gone hot red. He couldn’t answer, not with the truth. He knows what his parents think about Geno (or, at least, what they’d thought about him when they were both teenagers). So he’d mumbled something about a new boyfriend, picked a recipe and copied it in his neat, legible hand, and left in a hurry.

And, a long shopping list later—because of course he barely fucking stocks his kitchen—Nikolai stands in his kitchen and realizes that, not only does he never cook, but he’s not even sure he knows how to, anymore. Of course there had been lessons in vegetable-chopping and taste-testing, for both him and his older brother, but that had been ages ago. Now he’s the Minister of Arbitration, and he buys his meals to bring home and eat in an empty townhouse.

But he unfolds the recipe and reads it again and again. Carefully prepares all of the ingredients, warms the oven, doesn’t cut himself even once. Little dishes he’s completely forgotten about owning filled with spices, ready to be added when—and only when—called for. He was a man of the law, and right now, his grandmother’s recipe was law. He barely even notices the flour coating the front of his newly-purchased apron, and doesn’t complain when the dough sticks to his fingers as he works.

He remembers the way his mother used to spoon in the filling and gently pinch the dumpling closed, waiting by the boiling pot as they float to the surface. Now he’s the one sweating in the steamy kitchen, running to a window to throw it open and let in the cool twilight air. He smooths his hair back from his damp brow, catching his breath before he dives back in.

By the time Geno climbs in that open window, Nikolai is spooning the caramelized onions over the dumplings and dolloping cream on the side of the plate. 

Nikolai revels in the mouth-open look on Geno’s big, handsome face.

Geno looks at the plates, at the generous helping of dumplings; at the kitchen still cluttered from Nikolai’s work; at Nikolai’s grinning  face, still red from the work (with pride).

“Well,” Nikolai gestures (still covered in flour). “What d’you think?”

He doesn’t expect Geno’s eyes to well up, or his voice to half-catch in his throat with a word unsaid.

Nikolai panics. His utensils clatter as he drops everything to move around the table and steady Geno with hands on his arms, his face. 

“It’s okay—” Geno tries to tell him (traps Nikolai’s hands against his face), and he utters a little, pitiful laugh. “It’s just—”

He presses a long, hard kiss on Nikolai’s forehead, lingering there and just holding him.

“No one’s made me dinner since I was eighteen and sitting in your mom’s kitchen,” Geno murmurs into Nikolai’s hair. “And—” A harsh laugh. “—you know my mom never laid a finger on a hot meal when she could get Golgari slop for free.”

“Oh, Genya,” Nikolai breathes. He should care that his well-planned dinner is getting cold on the table, but he doesn’t. All he cares about, in that moment, is the way Geno’s mouth feels on his brow, his temple. “If you need me to arrest anyone—”

Geno loses it in a loud snort of a laugh, buckling easily into Nikolai’s embrace.

“Nah,” Geno replies, mussing Nikolai’s blond hair fondly. “Let’s fucking eat, it looks amazing.”

Nikolai wakes up alone again and sighs, throws a dramatic arm over his eyes. One of these days.