#like I wish I could print this out and hang it in my office

[baronessvonglitter]

Law of Attraction ~ Chapter 3

Rom Com AU divorce lawyer!Dave York x fem!Reader (featuring nightclub owner!Javier Pena)

Word count: 2,895

Summary: It's not a date. Just a lawyer and his client celebrating her divorce...

WARNINGS: 18+ Only! No smut in this chapter. Rom com vibes. AU. Reader wears a dress and nail polish. Mentions of eating food and drinking alcohol. Mutual pining AND mistaken for a couple 😊. Love bombing. Divorce. I'm just pretending I know what lawyers do and that divorces are quite speedy. Dave is multi-lingual because I say so. Also, hints that all is not well between Dave and Carol? (c'mon, when do we ever paint them as truly happy?)

Author's note: "You can't blame yourself for the choices you made when you were too young to know better." 💜

Series Masterlist

"What does the L stand for?"

Dave realizes you're asking him a question and he looks up from his file, a smile flitting across his face. "Pardon?"

It's the first time you've seen him since that fateful day at the museum. After catching up on your plans to divorce Javier and citing every reason why you desire to be forever parted from your husband, Dave had invited you to his high-rise office the following day, where you are now, sitting across from him at his desk.

"Your card says 'David L. York," you remind him, a pink-polished finger running over the smooth white business card.

"Liam," he says, a small blush creeping up his neck. You smile when you notice it, aware of how attractive he is when he blushes.

"David Liam York," you say to yourself, liking the roll of it off your tongue. "I like it. It suits you."

His head is down, perusing the paperwork before him, but he smiles at your compliment. "Wish I could say I'd chosen it myself."

It's quiet again as he goes over the fine print, and you wander over to the window of his office, smiling to see your bookstore/bakery right across the street. There's a rush today for cinnamon rolls with cream cheese frosting. You'd give anything to be there instead of here, making your divorce a reality.

For now you silently glance around, interested to catch glimpses of who Dave is. Framed art lines the walls-- abstract shapes painted in bold blues and greens-- far from the childishly geometrical shapes done in primary colors found in most offices, along with his diploma from Harvard, proudly displayed next to a photo of Dave with the mayor.

"I handled his third divorce," he says, and you realize you've been staring at his photo for too long. You shake yourself from your thoughts.

"Everything's in order," he continues, pushing the papers away at last. "All you have to do is sign and the process server will bring it to Mr. Pena and he'll be served immediately."

"Is the process server attractive?" you ask, only half-kidding. "My husband can't resist a beautiful woman, and he won't know what hit him once he's served."

Dave allows a little laugh at this. "Sienna is a very pretty young woman. I think your husband will have to pick his jaw up off the floor before he realizes his gorgeous wife is divorcing him."

The initial prick of jealousy over Sienna's looks makes way for a wave of emotion when Dave calls you gorgeous. He realizes he's overstepped and tries to fix it, but you brush it off.

"I'll keep in touch with you during this process, but I advise you to just try to take your mind off it. Do something you enjoy, hang out with people who care about you. And I strongly advise you to ignore Mr. Pena should he call or try to see you. From everything you've told me he sounds like a garden variety narcissist. What you're doing right now is the right thing," he assures you.

Right then it's on the tip of your tongue-- you're privy to a mere outline of the goings-on within Javier's club. While a large part of you just wants to get the proceedings over with, a deeper, baser instinct desires to make the bastard pay for his crimes. You're the only one with any insight as to the illegal activities.. at least, the only one willing to talk. And though it's not his money you're after, your need for justice wants his dark deeds to come to light.

Admittedly, you struggle with the idea once you actually open your mouth to tell Dave. It's there on the tip of your tongue, but a deep-seated loyalty bars the way for your words to exit. You hate that you can't be the type of petty everyone thinks you should be, but neither does the good citizen in you dare to show herself.

'My ex-husband is involved in illegal doings, please raid his place of business' just doesn't sit right with you.

"What is it?" Dave asks, sensing something is on your mind. The thoughtfulness of his gaze nearly makes you melt. His touch rests softly on your upper arm.

Everything previous thought buzzes through your brain on repeat, a mental coin flips but you don't let it land.

"It's just been a lot to deal with today," you explain tiredly, your hand resting on his on your arm. Dave's touch tenses slightly before taking it away. "This is all going to be worth it. You're doing the right thing," he reiterates.

You tell yourself that as you leave the office, your paperwork signed and ready to go. Of course you're doing the right thing. That's why you feel so shitty.

You can tell Javier's been served when a never-ending procession of gifts arrives at your home. You don't know how he got your new address, but the gesture of flower arrangements, stuffed animals, boxes of jewelry, and Shari's Berries (which you end up eating a few of just because they're delicious).

He doesn't bombard you with texts or calls, but leaves notes along with his gifts. His chicken-scratch handwriting barely legibly asking you to come back, to reconcile, to please stop the divorce process because you're breaking his heart.

If you were a weaker woman you would cave in easily, but you refuse to move the line you've drawn in the sand. You give away his gifts, make mini bouquets with the gorgeous flowers he sends and you give them away to your customers. The jewelry is the only stuff you give back, knowing its value is worth far more than the others.

Only when you're alone at night do you start to have second thoughts. The days keep you busy, revolving around your business, your family, the activities you never really got to enjoy while you were Javier's wife.

But when you curl up onto the left side of the bed as if awaiting someone else to fill the opposite side, and when you accidentally make enough food for two instead of just one, you realize being single is an adjustment, and it's taking you a little longer to get used to.

The mediation that follows is quicker than you'd expected. Neither of you want any of the other's business profits. Though Javier's club is more lucrative than your little bookstore/bakery, you take great pride in it being your own income.

Across the table in a small meeting room in Dave's law office, you are keenly aware of Javier's eyes on you, as if he's mentally willing you to look his way, to sway your opinion, to change your mind. What if he pulls some Jedi mind trick and gets you to rip up the papers and go back to him, rewind everything you've done and sit in a purgatory of your own making while he does whatever pleases him?

And damn it he looks good. His hair is neatly styled, forgoing the usual messy curls and longer sideburns. He looks like he could be the opposing counsel. And he knows it, the way he returns your glance, a dare within his dark gaze.

"So it's come to this," he says, fingers drumming on the table. You recognize that habit: he's dying for a cigarette. He's just as anxious about losing you as you are about losing him. And then you wonder if he's wondering if you've told on him, given the authorities the info that would grant a search warrant and risk putting his ass away for years.

It's quite a powerful thing to see him try to hide his relief when the meeting comes to an end and he realizes he's safe. Because of your mercy.

Next to you, Dave is a grounding presence, a gentle reassurance that you're doing the right thing for yourself, your sanity, and your broken heart.

Afterwards, even with the formalities out of the way Javier still has the gall to go to you, take your arm, try to bring you to a secluded corner near the elevator bank. Out of the corner of your eye you spot Dave, waiting, as if looking for a signal from you that you need him.

"You're really ending us, mi corazon?" Javier whispers, his lips close to your ear, his wisp of breath sending a little shock to your system.

"Javi, this was a long time coming," you extricate yourself from his grip.

"C'mon.. you can't forgive a one-time thing?"

"Are you an idiot or do you just have selective memory?" you huff. "That was far from the first time.. you were never faithful to me. And I deserve better."

"Baby," he grasps your arm once more as you try to leave. "I'm a shithead. I know, baby. But I need you. Only you can make me better."

You recognize his pleas from the notes he sent with the gifts. The man could never be faulted as a writer, but it's sad that he can't even learn new pickup lines.

"Oh Javi.." you cup his face and for a moment he looks hopeful. The woodsy scent of his aftershave lingers, reminding you of mornings you shared as a couple. "If I didn't make you better in all our time together then I must not be the miracle worker you think I am."

Walking away from him feels good, freeing. Dave is at your side as you step into the elevator, his hand resting lightly on your lower back, gesturing you in like the gentleman he is as you walk away from your very first love.

Dave has meetings the rest of the day, but he treats you to dinner at an Italian place he thinks you'll like, a celebration of putting the finishing touches on your divorce.

Valentina's is the kind of restaurant that has an old-fashioned feel. Red and white checkered tablecloths adorn the tabletop and Frank Sinatra songs play over the speakers. You and Dave are given a booth near the back, somewhat private with a good view of the rest of the place.

And there it is again, his hand resting on your lower back, the heat of him pressing through your black and white polka-dot dress.

"Are we celebrating something today?" the waiter asks in a thick accent. He's around your dad's age, pleasantly plump, attired in a crisp maitre'd outfit.

"No," you answer immediately. "Well.. yes."

"First date?" the man guesses, and you and Dave glance at each other, color rushing to your faces.

"No," he answers. "We're celebrating her divorce."

The maitre'd smirks. "She is divorced, and now you get to be with her, yes?"

The look on Dave's face and the particular shade of red that he blushes is going to stay on your mind for awhile. Especially when he speaks to the maitre'd in Italian, quick and musical in his low, soft voice.

"What did you tell him?" you ask with curiosity, leaning forward with your chin resting on your hand.

He pauses, obviously taking in the sight of you. "I told him your heart is broken and I'm doing the best I can to fix it." Another pause as he sips some water. "Because you're my client, of course."

That doesn't stop the waiter from coming back with a small vase of roses and baby's breath to decorate your table after he takes your order, presenting the wine Dave suggested with a flourish, pouring both your glasses with the ruby liquid.

"I'm guessing you didn't learn Italian in law school," you say slyly, taking a sip of wine.

"I like languages," he admits with a smile.

"You'll have to teach me some."

"I will," he nods. "If you keep me on retainer." A conniving little smirk curls the corners of his mouth upwards and for one insane moment you wonder how he would taste right now if you kissed him.

"How many women have you done?" you ask, then realize how wrong it came out. "I mean, how many female clients have you had?"

Despite your embarrassment, Dave answers honestly, without poking fun. "Women tend to hire female lawyers, and men tend to hire men. I guess it's about strength in numbers.. but to answer your question, not many. Why? Do you think you won't use me again?" he feigns a little worried look.

"Funny," you chuckle. "Do I get a discount if I've used your services before? Some kind of punch card? My fifth divorce is free?"

"The only way you'll have a fifth divorce is if you marry and divorce that idiot over and over."

"Of course," you play along. "But what if we're just like Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton?"

"At least they had the sense to only marry twice."

Dave leaves to take a business call and you're left alone for a moment. You catch snippets of the song playing over the general ambience. "Just One of Those Things" by Ella Fitzgerald plays, the lyrics drawing your attention: 'a trip to the moon on gossamer wings'. It somehow perfectly describes your marriage to Javier..

When your food comes your mouth can't help watering. Dave returns soon after, apologizing for leaving you so long, though it was only a few minutes.

A few tables away a man with his date gets down on one knee and proposes. When the woman says yes the restaurant bursts into applause. You and Dave clap, smiling politely at the happy couple. You wish you could feel the joy they feel. Instead, nostalgia washes over you in a sickening wave.

"Javier proposed to me at Olive Garden," you tell Dave, who's digging into his veal parmigiana. He raises his brow, shaking his head.

"There's nothing really wrong with Olive Garden."

"I had to talk him out of Buffalo Wild Wings first."

"Oh."

He only met the man a few moments back at the office, but he has a good idea of the man you thought you married. You were young and impressionable, he was suave and mysterious. There was nothing for you but to fall madly in what you thought was love.

"I don't like him," Dave says. "I didn't like him the minute he walked through the door."

Something about the way he says it warms you, not only because he's on your side, but because the damsel-in-distress part of you loves having a champion. "You have better judgment than I did all those years ago.."

He smiles tenderly. "You can't blame yourself for the choices you made when you were too young to know better."

"Well.. how do some people get it right the first time? Why did it work out with you and your wife, but not for me and Javier?"

Dave doesn't know how to answer at first, sipping the wine in the crystal glass before him. He glances down at his gold wedding band, wishing he could be blatantly honest with you and tell you he and Carol have their own issues and every day seems to feel like an uphill battle, but right now it's more important to him to give you faith.

"It wasn't always perfect. We've gone through our share of problems," he admits. "And I know you probably see me as someone in the business of tearing families apart. Which I do, most of the time," he adds with a grimace. "But I've also learned what not to do. When I go home at night after a long day of court appearances, mediations, mountains of paperwork, I'm just glad to be with my family. My work helps me appreciate them more."

You manage a small smile. If he can persist, so can you. And he's around such negativity all day. You have your books and your sweets and so you expect life to always be so simple. "I think I look for the good in people, even when it's not there. Either I'm stupid or simple."

"You're neither." His hand is on your forearm, a gesture of comfort. "One day you'll fall in love again and it'll be even better the second time around. Because it'll be the real thing," he adds.

There's something incredibly special about this moment, one of the few times you feel okay with going a little beyond the bounds of a client-attorney relationship. But the moment ends abruptly when the waiter sends a couple of violinists to serenade you during what is in no uncertain terms, not a date.

You'd like to believe Dave. You'd like to think you still possess an unfulfilled 'happily ever after' for yourself, locked away for just the right person. But you're alone in your home, with no one to greet you or ask how your day was. Admittedly, the world feels less warm now that you're apart, gone your separate ways, your transactional relationship over.

It's not just that. The whole world has changed, modified itself to grow away from you, leaving you like a plant in darkness. Love songs aren't about you anymore. You can't relate to their brightness, only mourn it.

Javier was the first person you ever fell in love with. You have no idea that the bigger challenge will not be falling out of love with him, but falling in love with yourself.

dividers by @strangergraphics & @saradika-graphics 👑

taglist: @penascigarette @joelalorian @la-vie-est-une-fleur29

@darkheartgatita @speaktothehandpeasants @rav3n-pascal22

@vickie5446 @mrs-pedro-pascal @zascal @sunnytuliptime

@mysticsuitcasealmondwombat @joelmillerisapunk @almostfoxglove

@itwasntimethatdidit40 @604to647 @milla-frenchy @everybodylovedcontractors

@misstokyo7love @ppascalq

[thesummerpetrichor]

𝓞𝓫𝓵𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓸𝓷

SoftDark!Joel Miller x afab!fem!reader

Summary: Explicit pictures of you taken by a man you cheated with find their way to your boyfriend's father's desk. He isn't too impressed with the artistry. Good thing he can make it right. He’s a photographer after all.

Warnings: 18+ only minors DNI you will be blocked. No outbreak, NONCON, DUBCON, coercion, blackmail, manipulation, power imbalance, implications of revenge porn [not by Joel], infidelity, girthy age gap [reader is in her early 20s, Joel is in his early 50s], explicit photographs and photography, petnames, praise kink, daddy kink, minor size kink, soft dom!Joel, sub!reader, fingering, edging, just the tip action, creampie, cumplay?, unprotected P in V [be better!!]. Let me know if I missed anything 🫶

Word Count: 5.9K

A/N: Surprise Joel Miller smut because why not. This is my first time writing for Joel, so please be gentle. Going for the subtle horror meets porn vibes. Hope you nasties enjoy. mwah 💗

Masterlist

I never walk about after dark

It's my point of view

'Cause someone could break your neck

Coming up behind you

Always coming and you'd never have a clue

I never look behind all the time

I will wait forever

Always looking straight

Thinking, counting all the hours you wait

“S’ just a hobby.” Kind, gentle mister Miller had scratched the back of his neck modestly, towering over you as you inspected the black and white photo negatives freshly hung on his walls. He just seemed happy that someone appeared to be taking up an interest in his retirement activities. It was an interesting choice, you thought, to hang up the negatives. 

That was your first time visiting the Miller household, and had you known your boyfriend’s father was as unassuming and sympathetic as he turned out to be, you wouldn’t have been as worried about meeting him as you were. You surely wouldn't have been able to guess looking at his pictures. But his scowl melted away into a soft, subtle smile the moment you walked through his door, and so did your reservations. 

You learnt a lot from him that evening– about cameras and such. He indulged you in conversations about your life and interests– you had many in common. There were quite a few people at the Miller’s Christmas party, and he made sure you weren’t too lost in the crowd. It was nice to have a listening ear.

Humble as he was, it was only months later you discovered his pretty pictures in a photography magazine. At the hotel you were staying in while on vacation with his son. It was the last vacation you ended up taking together. Switzerland. 

Since that Christmas you visited him every once in a while, occupying the couch in his office to help him sort through his prints, tidy up his gear, and chart out subjects he wanted to capture. His son didn’t really like making the twenty minute commute back home, so you brought his well wishes with you. Mister Miller liked the strawberry puff pastries you baked, so you brought them along as well. 

He was a quiet guy, and after all these years alone seemed to enjoy the company of someone in the house. His face lit up just that little bit whenever you came over. Enough to let you know you were welcome back anytime. 

His office was cozy. With a large Persian rug at its center, and tufted, walnut brown, leather furniture. He had an expansive library of literature beside his desk, one that he’d fitted to the wall himself. Reading- another one of his retirement hobbies. 

His desk was tidy, almost completely empty save for a picture of him and his brother Tommy, sitting on a ledge with their arms slung around each other, an in-progress construction site for background. Judging from the lack of gray hair on his head, and the absence of the little crinkles beside his eyes, the photograph was at least twenty years old. It looked like it belonged to an alternate universe. 

Mister miller looked a far cry from the sophisticated, whiskey drinking, cigar smoking, middle aged man you knew. A regular ol’ Joe, or Joel, rather. He had this rugged boyish charm about him. He was smiling wide, he looked happy. There was a jarring absence of that tired look in his eyes. Whether he looked more handsome back then, or now– you couldn’t decide. 

It was late July. You watched the menacing, dark gray clouds drift lazily towards you from your living room window. It was 4pm, but you had the lights on, and the oven going in your kitchen. The younger Miller was not yet back from work, even though he was supposed to be off by 2:30. At times like that one you hardly regretted your unfaithfulness. 

You had your little dinner date with Mister Miller that evening, but from the looks of it you might have had to reschedule. A crack of thunder reverberated along the walls of your two bedroom, and had you reaching for the kitchen timer you’d abandoned on your center table– the dial dangerously close to hitting ‘0’.

It felt more wrong than it should, calling it a date, considering the circumstances. You couldn’t say you didn't feel guilty still meeting his father, telling him that things were going great when they really weren’t. You wondered what Joel would think of you if he ever found out about your little secret. 

It was difficult not to wonder how two people could be so similar and different at the same time. Why, save for some of his good looks, Mr. Miller’s best qualities did not seem to pass down to his son. Admittedly, you thought about it a lot. You thought about it when you found a shade of lipstick that surely didn’t belong to you stain the collar of his cream sweater. 

Things had spiraled far out of your control since that moment. Into your secret paradise of hotel rooms and weekend getaways. Worst of all, you knew your partner was living a parallel life to yours. You could have ended your relationship, but things were just never that easy. Especially when consciously, or subconsciously mister Miller was part of the mix. 

You reached in the oven and pulled out the pastries. Looking between the custard you’d put into your piping bag, and the strawberries you’d cut lengthways laying beside the powdered sugar. The clouds were closer than they were five minutes ago. Your backyard was no longer the lush Eden of green and purple it was in the morning. You thought of Mister Miller– spending the night alone at home, sitting at his desk, with no dessert to enjoy after dinner. 

You reached for the piping bag and sighed, beginning to assemble the sweet treats and lay them in the pink paper box you’d picked out for him from your kitchen cabinet. 

—

By the time you got to his house thick droplets of rain were already coming down from the sky. It was about three shades darker than it was when you left home, and the minacous clouds had caught up with you. You glanced at your phone. 

7:00 pm 

You felt a drop trickle down the side of your cheek as you ran up the front staircase leading to the main door. You rang the bell. It sounded full, and new. He must have fixed it recently. 

Mister Miller opened the door. He always wore some variation of the same flannel shirt and dark jeans. Like a cartoon character. It was quite charming. You liked it. It was soft, and smelt like his perfume. Tobacco, Sandalwood. He rubbed your back soothingly when you hugged him. 

You handed him the pink box. It had a darker pink ribbon wrapped around it, folded at the top into a big bow, with a small card wedged in between the loops. 

“To Joel Miller :) ” 

He chuckled, then smiled. “Thank you, sweetie.” You didn’t need his gratitude, he was nice enough to you as is, but you did appreciate it. In the past months he had become your only real excuse to bake. 

He welcomed you inside, and soon enough you were settled in the dining room. He’d hung up a new painting since you’d last visited, and changed the light switches on the wall. Every time you were over there was a new addition to the home. You figured he liked having something to do. 

By the looks of it he’d lit the candles there a while ago, and laid the table. He’d butterflied napkins in their napkin rings, and set out glasses for red, white, and dessert wine. You felt a lot better about not canceling. You noticed the brand new table runner against the table’s wood. He told you he bought it that morning. He sounded excited. 

You helped him bring in the pot of stew from the kitchen, as well as a plate of cheese and a loaf of warm bread set on a wooden board. He served you some stew, then cut a few slices of the bread he’d baked and placed them on your side plate. It was surprising that he’d taken up an interest in baking. He always said he preferred to cook on the stove. He did it well. 

“Taking after you.” he’d said, reaching for the wine decanter. 

You wondered if he ever taught his son to cook, and if he did why the latter never liked to do so. You recognised the cheese on the platter. It was from the shop beside your house. You’d served it when he came home in February, with berry jam, marmalade and grapes. He hadn’t been back since then. 

He was mostly quiet during dinner, as always. He listened to you ramble about the show you were watching, and how you found your grandmother’s recipe book in your attic. You assured him you’d be trying every recipe in that book. He said he hoped so. Other than that it was quiet. A comfortable quiet. And you watched wax dribble away from the candle wic, and pool at the base of the candelabra. 

He cleared up while you brewed some tea and placed your pastries on the hand painted porcelain tray you’d gifted him for Christmas. You padded across the hardwood floors to his office, and it was only then you noticed how heavily it had been pouring outside. 

You peeled back the white lace curtains to find a sheet of rain clouding your vision. You made out the dim, golden lights coming off the neighbor’s porch, and the street lamps flickering gently. You were glad you came. It was all quite welcoming, and warm and golden in the Miller household– far more than you would be if you decided to stay back home. 

The door clicked open, and you felt him walking up behind you as you stood at his bookshelf. You pointed to the clock on the wall above it. “It stopped.” He exhaled heavily, with his hands on his hips, and looked up to the pathetically stuttering hours hand. It looked like it was fighting for its life within the confines of the glass– spluttering, struggling. 

“Fixed it two days ago.”

You peeled your eyes away. 

He eased himself into his leather office chair, reaching below the mahogany table to lift a large cardboard box filled to the brim with film. Used, unused, polaroids, disposables. It had red electrical tape around its edges, and the words ‘32, spiral cord and wire’ scribbled in black sharpie. 

“Gotta sort these.” He looked at you apologetically, but you reassured him with a smile, and poured him a cup of tea while he inspected the box. Your eyes wandered to the wooden clock, the hand still pleading for help. You heard it's garbled tic. The contents of the box clattered to the desk, rhythmically with a crack of thunder outside. 

You placed a plate and cup in front of him, then took your seat on folded legs across the table. The white curtains momentarily set ablaze, followed by another hard, violent thrum. You foredged through the pile, lightly covered with residual dust. The rings on your fingers sparkled when they caught the light of his table lamp. 

Amongst the many treasures were some polaroids of the lake mister Miller liked to fish in, the cabin he built upstate, and the back end of Tommy's Miller’s orchard. They looked like test films to you. Not as fixed on composition as Joel was. The settings on the camera all over the place. 

In the pile, under an oversaturated photograph of an apple tree, two familiar eyes peered up at you– much of the face covered and lost to the clutter. You reached for it. Bound together with a thin, blue paperclip were three separate photographs flimsily hanging on to one another. 

You felt sick to your stomach.

The eyes were familiar, because they were yours. 

A mangled torso, waxy, glossy legs, a chest glazed with the sheen of sweat. You looked more like a deserted mannequin than you did yourself. The dark gray “lighting” rendered your body and its surroundings lifeless– ironically, you remember quite enjoying it in the moment. But the polaroids were far more reflective of what you felt of them at present– plagued with regret and shame, and lifelessness. 

How long had he known? Importantly, How did he find them? It hurt you to even think about it. The sound of the stuttering clock was deafening in your ears, ringing like an ominous, cruel joke. 

You distinctly remember taking those pictures. Worse, you remember thinking of mister Miller as your partner had clicked them. You thought of what he’d think if he ever saw them. You could have never guessed you would actually find out. 

“How long, sweetheart?” You forced yourself to look up, finding his eyes already boring you. He was upset, and angry, and there was something brewing behind his eyes. But worst of all he was disappointed in you. And out of all the possibilities, somehow that was the worst. You’d rather him be yelling, because there was something about that soft, gentle voice of his that unnerved you. 

“Why didn’t’ ya say somethin’?” It was like a car crash, you just couldn’t look away from the polaroids in your hands. Your spread legs, bare breasts, panties thrown to the side. You opened your mouth to say something, but you just couldn’t manage it. 

“Really shouldn’t let just anyone take those kinds of pictures.” Your eyes welled with hot tears as he reprimanded you. The whole ordeal had you feeling like you’d been sent to the principal's office, sitting across from him at his desk, both his forearms leaned on the table as he threatened you with consequences. He continued to speak, despite being met with your silence. 

“You’re lucky these ended up here, would be a shame if he found out about it before you did.” While your little affair hadn’t ended well, you surely hadn’t expected whatever this was from your ex partner. He must have still thought your boyfriend lived at his childhood address. Boy did he make a miscalculation. You didn’t know which outcome you preferred. 

You wanted to explain yourself, wanted to assure him you weren’t some cheating, lying piece of shit. That you and his son were just not working anymore, that you felt guilty, and never did it again, that the man who took those pictures was the last one you slept with. That you couldn’t just end things with his son because you didn’t want to lose him. “Mister Miller- I-” 

He cut you off, snatching the images from between your fingers. You watched with burning eyes and your heart hammering in your chest as he inspected them. The man would never look at you the same. He sighed, his downturned, disappointed eyes catching yours. That look, it broke your heart. 

“I mean, look at these babygirl. Ya’ look dead.” 

With your palms cold and sweaty, and cheeks set ablaze, you sure felt like it. The burning in your chest and neck had become almost unbearable. 

“Such a cute lil’ body ya’ got there. And this-” he shook his head, his unblinking gaze forcing your eyes to his. “This boy fuckin’ ruined ya.” He tossed the polaroids on his desk, and leaned forward. 

It took you about ten seconds to realize that mister Miller’s real quam with the pictures was, for better or for worse, not the fact that they existed, or worse, weren't taken by his son, but that they were bad. Not morally, or ethically, especially considering how they’d landed in his possession, but artistically, formally. 

“Would be a shame if my son were to say, find em, layin’ ‘round.” The room began to spin in slow circles. In a second a flash of lighting struck through the curtains in the window behind Joel, his frame completely backlit by the blinding light momentarily. You winced as another harsh crack of thunder descended upon the quiet office. 

“No, mi- Please-”

“‘Specially to see ya like this, catch ya like this. In these god awful pictures.” He took your chin between his fingers, eyes filled with faux concern, brows furrowed. But behind the obvious facade there was something sinister and cruel. Something you wished you had seen before. Because you were sure it had always been there. 

“How ‘bout we fix ‘em, huh babygirl?” your eyes widened at the realization, at the weight of his implication. His grip on your chin was unrelenting, a warning, a little taste of what was to come. Had he forgotten somehow that you were in fact his son’s girlfriend and not his? A girl who was to him, until about ten minutes before, his future daughter in law? 

“You gonna help daddy fix ‘em for ya?” Time seemed to lose its cadence, every moment  stretched endlessly as you remained trapped under his dead eyed, unwavering gaze. His words sent a jolt between your legs, that name sent a jolt between your legs, and had you squeezing them together shamefully as you struggled to blubber out a response. 

He raised his brows in question, once again offering you the artificial choice before you were sure he would take what he wanted himself. You swallowed thickly, and nodded. It was a lot less difficult than you let yourself believe. What were you going to do? 

“Hmm good girl. Get on ya knees sweetie.” Still gripping your chin he reached for the camera on his desk. A polaroid SX 70– the one he used to click a picture of you blowing out your candles on your birthday. In that same office, where he sang to you alone, because his son was on a work trip. 

He pinched your cheek, and got up to round the table. You knew better than to talk back. You were reminded when you saw how his frame towered over you, like that first night you’d met him. Except this time his broad shoulders and muscular arms were threatening, intimidating, and undeniably making you weak in the knees. 

Pushing your chair back you got on your knees on that once thick, soft Persian carpet. It’s weave like a thousand needles piercing your skin, and no longer the cloud on which you liked to sit. 

“Would’ve expected more from a smart cookie like you. Didn’t I teach ya better sweetie?” It was sick. You knew he was talking of not only your carelessness, but those pictures. You should have known to come to him. He would have helped you figure it out. Your relationship troubles, and how to take those photographs. He squatted down to your level, eyes raking over your body like you were already on display for him. 

“Lemme see ya sweetie.” You wished he would just rip off the bandaid and do it himself. It would feel less humiliating. Reaching for the buttons of your sweater you undid them one by one. He watched your every movement, eyes trained on your chest as you exposed the swell of your breasts. 

He reached forward, and brushed his thumb over your skin, hushing you soothingly when you shivered. Your hot skin burned further under his feather light touch. It was like you’d always imagined– gruff and rugged, but skillful. Just like him. His fingers were rough, and reminded you of the photograph of him and Tommy on his desk. He suddenly looked a lot more like the man in that picture.   

It was like he was eating you up with his eyes with each bit of clothing you discarded on his floor. He hummed when you got to your white, daisy print ankle socks, and caught your wrist when you reached to pull them off. 

“Keep em’ on.”

Once brimming with vitality, his brown eyes turned lifeless, devoid of any flicker of emotion or human connection. You found yourself questioning whether you ever really knew him– the gentle, unassuming man you adored. If he even existed in the first place.

Left in nothing but your bra and panties you sat on your knees in front of him, unable to meet his eyes. Pink lace. You’d worn them on purpose, because your little dates were always a special occasion. You weren't planning on him seeing them. 

By the looks of it he seemed quite pleased with your choice. 

“All f’ me, babygirl?” His voice had dropped three octaves, almost slurred thanks to his smooth southern drawl. You swallowed thickly, and nodded your head. As much as you hated to admit it, he was, in some convoluted way, one hundred percent correct. 

Excitement defiantly swirled in your tummy as he let his hands roam your mostly bare body for a few seconds. Like he was examining and inspecting you. He lifted your limp arm to get a better look at your bare waist, then let it fall by your side and reached for the straps of your bra– loosening them to the point they were barely hanging on to your shoulders. 

The room began to spin a little faster when he gently pushed you back against the carpet, one palm planted firmly on your stomach to hold you there, the other hand folding your knees and planting your heels on the ground. The cup of your bra slipped off your chest, your breast now bare to the cool air. You felt exposed, for reasons less obvious than they really were. 

You heard the violent swish of the wind outside. It felt far and distant, and like it was right in that room, all at the same time. 

He began inspecting you again. It was odd, surely he liked the sight of your body, you could tell when you eyed the obvious bulge in his pants, but he was looking at you like you were some prop– like a little sex doll for his little photoshoot. He was moving you around as he pleased, positioning your limbs and tilting your head like an inanimate object. You didn’t fight back, let him take control of your body. It made your stomach churn, your core tingle. 

He nudged and then kneeled between your legs, fully clothed, looking at you methodically. You felt the cool air brush the wet spot that had formed on your panties as you gazed up at the ceiling, far too ashamed to meet his gaze. 

You watched him reach upwards towards his desk, and shift the lamp there till it was barely hanging on to the edge. The light hit you in the face, and forced your eyes shut till he turned it away and towards your chest. You tilted your chin to get a look at him, despite your better judgment. 

He hummed, swiping your dripping seam with his thumb, only stopping to eye you in warning when your body understandably jerked at the contact. The dark look in his eyes reminded you you weren’t really there for your own enjoyment, and more for his. It was like your natural movement was some sort of inconvenience to him, something that was hindering and interfering with his creative process. 

It was nauseating. But despite the fear that bubbled in your chest, you couldn’t deny the thrum of excitement that ran through your system when he began adjusting the settings on his camera. A part of you, a much bigger part of you than you'd like to admit, was enjoying the entire experience. 

“Look at that.” He chuckled, presumably at the way the fabric of your panties clung messily to your wetness in spite of your seemingly unwilling demeanor.  You felt a drop of sweat roll down between your breasts in anticipation. 

He teased your clit over your panties, switching between watching your face intently and finding the best angle. Leaning backwards and forwards. You knew better than to move around this time. “That boy doesn't know a thing about angles does he?” He was mumbling, excessively concentrated on properly composing his shot. 

“‘S’ okay sweetheart, we’ll fix it.” Hooking two fingers under the seam of your panties he pulled them aside, exposing your bare cunt to the chilly air. “Daddy’ll fix it.” He watched himself run his fingers through your wetness, and you watched him swallow thickly at the view. You chewed on your bottom lip, summoning all your restraint not to wiggle your hips in his direction. 

“Thought ‘bout this cute lil cunt all fuckin week.” 

Your disobedient mind encouraged the desire that pooled in your core, and you turned your head side to side to rid yourself of the disturbing thought. 

He must have noticed your strained expression, the way you were so clearly begging to be touched, but refused to admit it. Your creased brow was not one of intense pleasure, but anxiety, uncertainty and perpetual frustration. His shoulders dropped defeatedly, and he looked at you like he was about to unleash on you another set of debased instructions. 

“Gotta look like you’re enjoyin’ yourself more than that babygirl.” 

Caught slightly off guard, but admittedly thankful nonetheless, a breathy sigh escaped your lips as he began drawing soft circles on your aching clit. “That’s it babygirl” His praise licked between your legs, going straight to your core. Fingers wet with your slick he rubbed your throbbing pussy, and you let your head fall back against the carpet. 

“So fuckin’ wet f’ daddy.” 

Increasing his pace ever so slightly his fingers moved to tease your aching hole, just barely pushing in. You felt a moan bubble in your throat, forcing its way out of your mouth. It was more than embarrassing to admit you were enjoying his attention. 

“Let go babygirl. Daddy’s gonna make ya’ look so pretty in his pictures- like ya’ really are, like ya' deserve.”

He bit his lip to keep from smiling when he heard the soft moan slip past your lips. “That's better.” You didn’t know if he was more pleased with your pleasure, or the fact that you’d look better in the photographs.  

As your chest rose and fell with his movements you were more and more convinced. It was undoubtedly better to play along and give in. There was little point resisting by the time the thought even occurred to you. Admittedly, embarrassingly late. At least that's what you told yourself when you moaned and sighed below him. 

“Shit sweetheart. Wish you could see what ‘m seein’.” You imagined what Joel could see through the lens. It felt dirty, and contrite, but also exhilarating, and warm and right. 

You felt the tension build in your hips, between your legs. He had been resisting fucking you with his fingers, and your need to be filled was only increasing with each touch to your sensitive clit– your aching hole clenching around nothing. Your mind wandered to the way you’d undoubtedly seen his cock twitch in his jeans at the sight of you. How you’d been wishing secretly for him to fill you up. 

The coil in your belly tightened, and tightened, and you felt yourself reach the edge, the very peak of your pleasure. You made out a beam of white lightning through your half closed, lust clouded eyes. 

He brushed his thumb over your clit, ever so slightly. You were so so close, feeling the tension reach its highest point in a split second and then dissolve entirely. You gasped, back arching off the ground. 

In the deafening silence you heard the shutter and click of the camera. The sound was menacing. And it made your tummy flutter.  

“That's it baby, good girl” 

Your slick pooled at your entrance, running down your thighs and making you shift uncomfortably. You felt numb in your toes, something in you prompting you to kick your feet just a little. At the lost pleasure. The word was leaving your mouth before you could even register it. 

“Daddy” 

“I know, I know-” Fuck. He sounded so gentle. Like the Joel you knew. The Joel you loved.  “just a little longer sweetheart, you can take it.” He rubbed the inside of your thigh. 

He rested his camera on his knees and reached forward to cup your cheek, stroking your warm skin with his thumb. His fingertips were ice cold, and made you wince. “Just think of how pretty they're gonna turn out-” The look in his eyes was pleading, like you even had a choice in the matter. You wondered if he thought you did. Either way it seemed to work on you. “How pretty you’re gonna look.” 

“C’mon be a good girl f’ daddy.” His words made you mewl. Joel pinched your hip in warning, but kept his voice steady. 

“C’mere” Hitching both your legs on his shoulders and on either side of his head he scooted forward on his knees. Your skin tingled in anticipation, and you wondered what it would be like to have his head between your thighs. 

Admiring your white ankle socks he ran his thumb along the base of your foot, making your squirm in his hold. He engulfed its arch in his large palm, placing a kiss to your soul and then your ankle, moving forward to nuzzle your calf with his nose. 

“Goddamn, such a cute lil thing.” 

You watched him palm his bulge through his jeans, then undo his belt with his eyes still trained on your messy, wet pussy. As if he’d caught you staring he reached forward and tilted your chin back up towards the ceiling. Surely, you straining your neck to get a good look at him was doing nothing for his shot composition. 

You felt him let go of your shin in favor of guiding his cock along your throbbing seam. His tip bumped your clit, making you mewl and inadvertently lift your hips in his direction. You wished you could see him, on his knees in front of you, his cock teasing your dripping cunt. 

“Poor thing, can feel how bad ya’ need it.” Exhaling heavily he continued to rub his cock against your wet folds, eyes fixated below him. He cursed lowly under his breath, and lined himself up with your entrance, pushing in just a little. 

Your mouth fell open in a wordless cry at the slow stretch of him, and you attempted to grab fistfulls of the carpet beneath you. He’d barely put it in , but it was enough to send your eyes fluttering shut. 

“Cute lil pussy can barely take my cock, baby.” 

He fucked you, giving you just the tip, over and over and over, unwilling to burry himself in you to the hilt. You felt him twitch inside you, the slow pace and minimal contact enough to keep you both on edge, and not enough to provide any semblance of relief. 

You whined in protest. 

“Shh babygirl, I know.” He fucked you in slow shallow strokes, hips barely moving. You felt his eyes glued to your face, as if he was waiting for the perfect moment to snap his shot.

He thumbed your clit, his own breath quickening when your walls clamped around his cock. 

You’d never reach your peak this way, and it looked like he noticed. It seemed to be quite a large part of his artistic vision, and you were more than glad. 

He groaned and thrust himself to the hilt in a single slow push, picking up his pace just enough to where you could feel him hit that sensitive spot inside you. His cock throbbed against your aching walls, the drag of him sending your eyes rolling back into your head. His hands gripped your thighs, lips dragging across your calves every now and then as he fucked your warm, wet pussy– slow and deep. 

You felt full, unlike you ever had before. With the way he was making you feel it was difficult to think of who he was, and how he’d got you into this position. Neither your boyfriend’s existence, nor the reality of his intimidation took away from the soaring pleasure that made your body sing. 

It was all too much to bear, and you could feel your orgasm building in your core once again. 

The ominous sound of the wooden clocks garbled tic found its way back to your ears, this time in rhythm with your pounding heart. It sounded oddly comforting, like it was pushing you closer to the edge. 

“Daddy-” you reached for his hand, bringing his large palm to squeeze your breast. He obliged, his free hand moving from there to tug and pinch at any part of you exposed to him. 

“Daddy, gonna cum-” Joel sat back just a bit, still fucking into your soft cunt. “Cum ‘f daddy babygirl, fuck, that’s it.” It was all you needed, the tension that had been building in your core for what seemed like forever finally snapping. Your body went rigid, eyes screwing shut and back arching off the ground once again, legs tingling. Your walls fluttered around his cock as he slowed his pace, coaxing you through it. He hit that sweet spot inside you over and over, seemingly enjoying the many waves of your orgasm just as much as you. 

Between the ticking and Joel's labored breaths, and ringing in your ears you barely heard the click of the camera, but the soft sound sent a jolt through your body, like an electric aftershock. 

You took more than a moment to catch your breath, face tingling and head buzzing. 

When your eyes fluttered open you noticed Joel had abandoned his camera on the ground beside him in favor of grabbing your thighs. Still sensitive you shivered as he fucked into your pussy, fast and hard. You looked up at his face, twisted in pleasure, the little wrinkles on his skin accentuated thanks to his frown and furrowed brow. 

“So fuckin tight babygirl” You felt him pulse and throb inside you, emptying himself in a few final, sloppy thrusts. 

He looked so handsome, with his hair just slightly out of place, and flannel wrinkled and messy. The thought of being filled up by him had your tummy erupting with butterflies. 

Still catching his breath he reached for his camera, pulling out ever so slowly. With your legs still on his shoulders he tucked himself back into his jeans and fixed his belt, slowly easing himself on his stomach in front of you, and dropping your legs on either side of his head. 

You couldn’t see him, but you felt him chuckle against your bare thigh, his breath tickling your skin. “Show me how full ya’ are of me babygirl– how messy ya’ are f’ daddy”. You bit your lip as you pushed, and heard yet another click of the camera echo across the room. 

“Fuck. look so fuckin’ pretty, full’ve my cum” His spend leaked out of your fluttering entrance, and you felt him swipe his finger against the cut of your pussy and push anything that escaped right back in. He shifted your panties back in place, the material already dampening once again, this time with both your and his juices.

He sat up with his legs stretched out in front of him, back resting against the legs of his couch beside you. He pulled you to rest your head on his lap. You watched him intently as he reached beside him for the photographs. They must really be something, because mister Miller sure looked impressed with himself. 

When he turned to you you were probably met with his most wide and genuine smile yet, the three fresh new polaroids pinched between his thumb and index. You watched as the white light from outside invaded the room, and struck his face, illuminating it for a split second. The garbled tic of the wooden clock had subsided into the white noise of the background, along with the steady hum of the rain. You relaxed into his embrace. 

“Make the prettiest little model, don’t ya think sweetheart? Daddy’s gonna have to use ya’ more often” 

And no, I'm not a jerk

I would ask if you could help me out

It's hard to understand

'Cause when you're running by yourself

It's hard to find someone to hold your hand

You know it's good to be tough like me

But I will wait forever

I need someone else

To look into my eyes and tell me

"Girl, you know you've got to watch your health"

See you on a dark night

See you on a dark night

See you on a dark night

Going to hell for this one. Please let me know what you think. Comments and reblogs keep me writing. I also want to re iterate please be careful about who you send or let take explicit pictures of yourself. Never show your face and stay safe. Dividers by @ saradika and @cafekitsune 💗🐝🫶

[sugar--brown]

The mechanisms were Jon's college band AU

You see this AU crossover between The Mechanisms and The Magnus archives? Yeah, I like that one.

But I prefer the two groups being only linked by Jon. So, Nicholas is not Toy Soldier, Basira/Georgie is not Ashes, etc... I just like to think Jon has the coolest friend group/family to hang out outside of work and no one except Rosie knows about the mechs.

I want to try writting a chatfic too, so here it is. It's just the first chapter but I'm so anxious that I can't continue for now...

- Monday, 06:02 - The crew of the starship Aurora

Jonny d’Ville: sent a photo

[The Magnus Institute stands tall over the photographer; they had to bend backward a bit to capture the top of the building. The grey sky of this early September morning makes a great background for the golden dome, which overlooks the institute]

Jonny d’Ville: I am here.

Ashes O’Reilly: didn’t you work here for 4 years now?

Gunpowder Tim: yeah you sound like a little kid telling his family that he arrived safe

Raphaella la Cognizi: are we ur family jon? its so sweet

Toy Soldier: Awww (づ￣ ³￣)づ

Jonny d’Ville: Shut up! You are the ones who insisted that I send you news more often.

Nastya Rasputina: Just say you are nervous about your new job and that you try to buy time by talking to us.

Nastya Rasputina: Iris whishes you good luck.

Jonny d’Ville: Are you together right now?

Nastya Rasputina: Yes Jon, at 6am we are not at work yet. Only you do that.

Ashes O’Reilly: wait hang on why are you awake Tim?

Ashes O’Reilly: I thought you were doing the night shift

Gunpowder Tim: Don’t worry big sib Alex, I go right to bed after giving some support to our first mate ;)

Jonny d’Ville: It is captain for you.

Gunpowder Tim: FIRST MATE

Nastya Rasputina: FIRST MATE

Ashes O’Reilly: FIRST MATE

Toy Soldier: FIRST MATE

Raphaella la Cognizi: FIRST MATE

Marius von Raum: FIRST MATE

Drumbot Brian: FIRST MATE

Ivy Alexandria: FIRST MATE

Jonny d’Ville: Oh! Now you are all here!

Toy Soldier: Take it as us wishing you good luck (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧

Jonny d’Ville: Fine. I do not have time for that anyway, I am already late.

Nastya Rasputina: You are certainly NOT.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.- - 09:32 -

Jonny d’Ville: Does anyone know how to find and catch a dog without any property damages?

Gunpowder Tim: … what?

Raphaella la Cognizi: do u have some dog food with u?

Jonny d’Ville: Of course not!

Nastya Rasputina: Context.

Jonny d’Ville: Yes, right.

Jonny d’Ville: Elias (my boss) decided to assigned a third assistant to the archives. He’s sloppy, slow, clumsy and had let a dog in. It had been thirty minutes that we all try to catch it.

Gunpowder Tim: Aren’t you supposed to work in some kind of archives, J?

Jonny d’Ville: I do.

Raphaella la Cognizi: i want to meet ur new assistant

Raphaella la Cognizi: i like dog send a picture!

Jonny d’Ville: Yes, thank you Raphaella, I will. But, I really need to find the beast before it makes serious damages or my boss learns about it.

Gunpowder Tim: You didn’t see where it went?

Jonny d’Ville: Sadly, no. It went straight into the depth of the archives.

Nastya Rasputina: I can feel your anxiety through my phone. Deep breath, it’s not the end of the world.

Jonny d’Ville: It could be the end of my career.

Nastya Rasputina: No.

Gunpowder Tim: Send us a picture Jonny-boy, maybe we could help!

Jonny d’Ville: sent a photo

[The photo is a bit blurry and dark, but it’s possible to see shelves full of files and papers, boxes on the ground and a few old office furniture scattered around. On the floor, a muddy trail is barely noticeable.]

Raphaella la Cognizi: paw prints!!!!

Gunpowder Tim: Follow the mud Jonny!

Nastya Rasputina: Just treat the dog like a very active cat and bring it back outside, its owner should search it.

Jonny d’Ville: Thank you, everyone, I think I hear it now.

Raphaella la Cognizi: No prob!

Gunpowder Tim: You got this!

Nastya Rasputina: Don’t freak out and don’t overthink it. It’s just a job like any other.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.- - 10:23 - The crew of the starship Aurora

Toy Soldier: Did I just miss Jon chasing a dog in his workplace?! ｡･ﾟﾟ*(>д<)*ﾟﾟ･｡

Raphaella la Cognizi: he promised to send a picture

Toy Soldier: (❤ω❤)

Jonny d’Ville: sent a photo

[It’s a closeup of the spaniel sniffing at the camera. The pavement of the sideroad is visible just like the wagging tail of the dog]

Raphaella la Cognizi: doggie! thanks jonny u made my day! pet it for me!

Toy Soldier: ฅ V•ᴥ•Vฅ!!! <3

Jonny d’Ville: My nerves are officially fried.

Toy Soldier: More than the time you asked Georgie out?

Jonny d’Ville: shut up!

Raphaella la Cognizi: come on j! it can happen to anyone no need to stress

Jonny d’Ville: I don’t need a surprise new coworker who mess things up first thing in the morning.

Raphaella la Cognizi: sounds like good story!

Toy Soldier: Yes! Tell us!

Jonny d’Ville: It’s nothing. Just Elias not warning me that I will have a third assistant. And the said assistant let a dog in the archives when he arrived. He looks clumsy, dumb, and useless.

Jonny d’Ville: I swear! He tried to buy me with a cup of tea! How disgustingly sweet is that? And he wears the most hideous and soft looking jumpers I have ever seen!

Jonny d’Ville: Disgusting.

Jonny d’Ville: Why is no one saying anything anymore?

Raphaella la Cognizi: nothing nothing

Toy Soldier: Just go back to work! ρ(- ω -、)ヾ(￣ω￣; )

Jonny d’Ville: Right. Yes. Better to get back. Have a nice day.

Raphaella la Cognizi: luv u!

Toy Soldier: (⌒ω⌒)ﾉ

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.- - 12:11 - Tim to Jules

Tim: Marius

Tim: Marius my good man

Tim: Marius our real psychologist

Tim: Marius our ship doctor

Tim: Jules! It’s important come on!

Jules: Can’t I have one lunch break in peace?

Tim: Not when Jonny is dropping bombs like that in the group chat!

Jules: Let me check

Jules: Oh my

Tim: Soooooo?

Jules: yeah, the new assistant caught his attention.

Tim: just like with Jun!

Jules: like with Jun?

Tim: we never told you this story?

Jules: I know they were best friends over their mutual love of gothic, tragic, and angsty storytelling and that Jun taught him queerness but I’m not sure how it applies here

Tim: we didn’t tell you! Oh this is great! Let me tell you what happened before Jun and Jonny became Dr Carmilla and Jonny d’Ville.

Tim: well technically Jun had had already her persona but you see my point

Tim: alright so Jonny was this weird, emo, kid in first year of college. He was a mess really, worst than when you met him.

Tim: Jun was a Japanese student here in London to study for a year before going back to Japan and welcome London’s students. Exchange program yada yada yada…

Jules: I know that, you know?

Tim: shhhhhh… let me tell the story

Tim: so! When Jun started to be better than him in their literature class, Jonny was mad! I wasn’t even his friend but I could see it, the two of them spent all their breaks bickering. Jonny in his soft, shy, but angry voice and Jun in her broken English mixed with Japanese.

Jules: Wait hang on

Jules: They weren’t friends because they were good at the same things?

Jules: I thought that Jonny always treated Carmilla like some kind of idol, having a little crush on her and all.

Tim: they did after exchanging notebooks by accident! Jonny loved Carmilla’s songs so much and Carmilla loved his stories so much that they finally talked normally and became friends

Tim: and yes Jonny had very strong feelings for Carmilla from the start, but he’s just terrible at expressing it

Tim: like a kid bothering another one because they don’t know how to keep their attention on them

Tim: but I doubt it was romantic

Jules: Wait wait wait

Jules: are you implying that this new assistant Jonny just met is his new crush?

Tim: that’s what I’m asking you!

Jules: well… it’s true that Jonny has troubles to express himself…

Tim: mh mh!

Jules: but it could also be because he’s very stressed from having being promoted to head archivist and having to deal with someone new when he requested his colleagues.

Tim: yeah, “colleagues”

Jules: We both know what he means ;)

Jules: My diagnostic: we can keep an eye on it

Tim: Yesssssss

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.- - 17:01 - Archives team baby!

Timothy had created the group Archives team baby!

Timothy had added Sasha

Timothy had added Martin

Timothy changed Sasha’s name for Hacker

Timothy changed Thimothy’s name for Inspector Tim

Inspector Tim changed Martin’s name for New Guy

Inspector Tim: Here we go! All done!

Hacker: Well that was quick, one minute after the workday is done. Impressive.

Inspector Tim: What can I say? I am a man of many talents! ;p

Hacker: Can’t deny that.

Hacker: But if allow me…

Hacker changed Hacker’s name for Sasha

Inspector Tim: Hey! I didn’t allow you!

Sasha: It would be easier for Martin to remember our name if we keep them written on this chat.

Inspector Tim: But he needs to know the dynamic too :(

New Guy: I don’t mind either way… whatever you prefer

Inspector Tim: Don’t be shy! We are all friends here!

Sasha changed New Guy’s name for Martin

Inspector Tim: :( :( :(

Sasha: Let’s keep it simple for now.

Inspector Tim: Alright alright but I keep Inspector Tim because I’m wonderful

Inspector Tim: So! Let’s play 20 questions!

Sasha: I thought you wanted to do it at a pub

Inspector Tim: This is the sober version, so we can compare ;)

Inspector Tim: Here’s the rules! Sasha and I know each other so we will team up. We will ask a question, you answer, and you ask a question, and we answer. 10 questions by team! Got it?

Martin: I think…

Sasha: Play without me, I’m entering the no signal part of the tube.

Inspector Tim: aw :(

Inspector Tim: Well I start then! What do you think of Jon?

Inspector Tim: Martin?

Inspector Tim: I see you typing for three minutes straight now, I’m getting worried

Inspector Tim: No pressure! You can refuse to answer.

Martin: Sorry!

Martin: It’s hard to find the right words…

Inspector Tim: Relax!

Inspector Tim: I won’t tell him ;p

Martin: I guess he’s alright… he seems professional and hardworking, I’m glad to work with him

Inspector Tim: That sounds like more a job interview but fair enough! Don’t hesitate to come see us if you have troubles, he can be a bit…

Sasha: special.

Inspector Tim: Yeah! That! But he’s nice

Inspector Tim: Deep deep deep down

Inspector Tim: (glad to have you back sash’)

Sasha: Your turn, Martin

Martin: What is your favourite band/song/music?

Inspector Tim: A safe choice but a very interesting one, very smart…

Sasha: Since I know Tim is busy googling the exact song he wants you to judge him on, I will answer first.

Inspector Tim: *thumb up*

Sasha: I like songs which tell stories, no matter the gender, I’m not a fan of generic lyrics.

Sasha: @ Inspector Tim your turn

Inspector Tim: Already?!

Inspector Tim: You lost your flamboyant speech

Inspector Tim: The archives fed on it

Sasha: Stop being dramatic and answer the question

Inspector Tim: Kay kay

Inspector Tim: It’s I kissed a girl of Katy Perry

Inspector Tim: The perfect mix of queerness for me

Sasha: Tim is pan, for context. So a song celebrating lesbian loved by a queer man is a good definition of him.

Martin: That’s great!

Martin: I mean no

Martin: Yes!

Martin: I just want to say that it’s great that you are comfortable with it

Martin: Not like you couldn’t be!

Inspector Tim: Relax Martin, I get it

Inspector Tim: And thank you!

Sasha: Really, Martin, we just want to integrate you in the group, so no stress.

Martin: Thank you

Martin: It really means a lot

[ktownshizzle]

Honorary mention for the Ult Yoongi visual but also falls under the "Yoongi visuals we moved on from WAAAAAY too quickly":

Silver haired Yoongi. Underrated and nowhere near as appreciated as he should be imho.

I had already 'clicked' with Yoongi at this point but this was the moment that took me from "I think out of all the members this guy might just be my bias" to "holy FUCK that man is HOT"...

Specifically, this exact moment:

Up until then I was like, "he's cute, he's relatable, etc... " but then this moment happened and my brain glitched and all I could think was "I LOVE ARM"

(I still do)

More silver haired Yoongi moments we moved on too quickly from? The Coway ad campaign. For a BED.

I mean...WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS.

And THIS???

That crisp white dress shirt?

The two buttons undone?

That peek of SKIN????

*gasps* SCANDALOUS

(I like it...gimme more.🤪)

And finally the pièce de resistance of silver haired Yoongi era: Black Swan in a pleated leather skirt. I seriously love this Yoongi so much I have an art print of this very image hanging in my home office.

It. Is. EVERYTHING.

So yeah. DDay era Yoongi and Silver haired Yoongi are my two fave / ult Yoongi eras. 💜 

I am screaminggg!!! This gray/silver hair on Yoongi is so underrated, agreed! Black Swan and LV shoot skirt-wearing Yoongi. 😩 So pretty and modelesque. 💜✨

P.S. I wish I had the print too for my home office!

[kiskivmiske]

Tw: body horror-ish

•••••|Pyrrhia exploration logs|••••••

Entry 006

Day ПОШЛИ К ЧËРТУ!

Мы сдохнем тут, но по крайней мере я могу сделать это

[IMAGE_DELETED_BY_USER]

End entry

Entry 007

Day 5

I apologize on behalf of Egor Efimovich who used Ivy's pocketscan to take a picture of... certain body parts to offend the head office. They confirmed that there are no plans on picking us up and the ship will depart soon. So he's reasonably upset by that.

Anyway

Head office told us why exactly they are scadoodling away. So, you know these islands on the tail on the continent? Some aren't a geological formation! Ded Egor compared them to "whale fish" from Russian folklore. A massive fish (or whale, idk) that had an entire city on its back.

In the sea, there's a massive creature that is so big it can't be fully submerged and some of the parts sticking out of the water had formed not just algae or moss layer, but wooded islands with an entire ecosystem on them! The creature itself should be around four hundred kilometers long! For reference: if it drinks water in Tokyo Bay, its tail will be hanging off the other side into the Sea of Japan. Stas almost lost his mind realizing that's more than from his hometown to Ekaterinburg.

This is a print they sent us. I wish I could unsee this, but oh well

Luckily, it's immobilized due to its size, so it won't be going anywhere. And it's a sea serpent of sorts. Eel like creature with glowing stripes. People thought those are luminescent bacteria blooms. Sike! It's a 400 000 meter long [AUTOMATICALLY_TAGGED_AS_INAPPROPRIATE]sea dragon. Not a normal snake, you can see the horns. I should've amputated my tongue when I had the chance!

This thing is far away so I'm not worried that much. But if there are more similar creatures, that's gonna suck worse than space vacuum. First a sea serpent, then what? Motherloving Shendu walks into our camp? (Watch Jackie Chan Adventures, educate yourself. That is, if you still have access to the ark and tv. Guys made fun of me for liking 00s cartoons and told me to touch grass. Jokes on them. I, unlike them, WILL be touching grass in the next few decades. And they will drift in space on their stupid ship!)

The ark sent another portion of stuff along with the print. Now we have inflatable devices: boats, supboards, two mattresses and floating tents (good, we need an extra plan in case of a flood); ten barrels of rice... Look, rice is a part of our local diet, I like rice, Zira and Rus like rice, Ivy likes their plov. But not to the point of eating rice or buckwheat every single day! Oh, speaking of which, also ten barrels of buckwheat (barf!), a pile of old clothes and a bit of stationery. Now, I do realize they're going that not out of generosity, but are just... dumping trash.

Our cat, I named him Tohru (watch Jackie Chan Adventures, educate yoursef, the hell is "dragon maid", Stanislav? I have more than enough dragons in my life already) is working to pay his bills. By morning, he brought fifteen bugfish AND a severed vampire's proboscis. (Should've named him Van Helsing, but oh well) This cat is a bloody menace. I remind you, vampires are as big as a wolf. We should keep him under supervision to avoid overhunting. Next thing you know, it will fish out that giant island serpent.

Stanislav's bark machine, however, only gives us sleepless nights. It barks and barks at the woods all the time. Even at day, when we can't see there's nothing wrong! Egor thinks about making a dinamo machine to make use of husky's energy. A dog sized hamster wheel. It's still an idea, cuz he's busy building the treehouse. Guys finished a base platform, so, even if there's flash flood, we can at least get on the higher ground.

Ivy's condition has worsened. Damaged skin is peeling off and she apparently got some local bacteria on it. I didn't think about that when submerging her in local water. Its microbiome is different from earth's. Dan is getting better though. He helps Nazira cook bugfish soup. (It's blue, by the way)

Ivy herself is awake, but has a fever and doesn't get up. She either plays with pets or tells kids stories. But most of the time she's sleeping.

When I helped Egor making a fence, I heard her screaming bloody murder. I ran into the hospital tent and saw black and white figure sitting on top of her. I thought something happened to the kitty, but then I came closer and instead of

This I saw this thing

After having a mild heart attack, I assumed this creature is some sort of brood parasite, that mimics supposed babies of the species. (Could as well be an adult pretending to be an offspring for food and protection) And probably thought a cat is actually a human infant.

It is very similar to Earth cephalopods, except it doesn't have a beak. Instead, it has several rows of teeth down its throat on cartilaginous plates. And much like octopi, it can change color and texture of its body. We gave it food and left it for a while in a closed tent. It relaxed and unwrapped itself into a much more bearable state. It slithers across the floor and eats cat food. It doesn't seem hostile and we consider keeping it.

Remember, don't ever change the way you are.

I'm serious. Don't.

I can't afford enough therapy, especially on a planet without therapists.

It reminds me of a pokemon, so I'mma call this particular nest mimic Ditto. Alternative suggested nicknames included Roomba, Blobby and Olga Vladimirovna. (Egor said the mimic has gelatinous consistency of his chemistry teacher.)

On worse news, we have neighbors. Keith said his imaginary friend saw a group of "evil black people" on the edge of the forest. I clarified, asking if they were like uncle Dan.

"No, uncle Dan's skin is brown. Those people were black like coal with pale spots around their eyes and mouths. They also had shells on them and sticks that make fire."

I think he means those people were wearing balaclavas or some sort of masks. And "shells" could be bulletproof vests. Fire sticks are definitely guns. Some troops? There's a chance they could be willing to work together. But there's also a big chance of them attacking us for resources, if they also were abandoned. And the second one considerably outweighed the first.

I asked why these people were evil.

Keith: "You made him (his friend) sad." (pause) "They killed his mom and hurt him."

I didn't know what to do with this information for a while. This could just be Keith's imagination. But in the evening I was taking out the trash and my hand felt something very hard and heavy in a pile of bandages. And what do you think.

It was a deformed bullet.

End entry

[pixel7777]

The First Worshipper: Ch. 13

The naughty version of the beautiful artwork commissioned from the incredible misfitlunatic (https://x.com/misfit_lunatik or https://bsky.app/profile/misfitlunatik.bsky.social) can be seen in all its glory here.

If you want to read from the beginning, searching my blog for #myfic will bring up all my fanfic posts. Link for Chapter 1. Link for art discussion post.

Read this chapter below the break here or on AO3!

203 years AB

"For the last time, Master Blackchisel, I won't have her looking like some simpering priestess of Eldath." I paced the length of my office in my Lower City home. "Shadowheart had teeth."

The dwarf sculptor crossed his thick arms, the light catching on his work-worn hands. "And what good will teeth do the children who come to pray at her shrine? They need a good example, not—"

"They need truth." I snatched up the clay model from my desk, turning it in my hands. The serene face looked nothing like her. "This? This is propaganda. Lies like the Sharrans fed her. She'd hate it."

"With respect, Lord Ancunin, you're letting sentiment cloud your vision. This memorial will stand for generations. The Upper City expects—"

"The Upper City can hang." I set the model down harder than necessary. "I'm not paying you to appease nobles who never knew her. I'm paying you to show who she really was – the woman who told Shar to her face to go fuck herself, who fought with broken ribs to save her parents, who grew roses that could kill a man if he looked at them wrong."

Blackchisel's beard bristled. "And how will that inspire devotion? The faithful need—"

"She wasn't faithful! That was the whole point!" I gestured at the other models lining his shelves – Karlach mid-laugh, Lae'zel's warrior stance, Wyll's heroic grin. "Look at the others. You captured them perfectly. Why insist on sanitizing her?"

"Because she was a cleric. The temple wing demands—"

"The temple wing demands honesty. They all do." My voice caught. I turned away, pretending to study the rough sketches on my desk "That's what this whole project is about. Telling their stories. The real ones."

Behind me, Blackchisel sighed. "And what of your wing, my lord? How shall we portray you?"

I didn't answer. My wing would wait. First, I had to get the others right. Had to make sure Tav's grave would be surrounded by the truth of who we were, not what history wanted us to be.

"Show her fierce," I said finally. "Show her real. Or I'll find someone else to complete the commission."

I stared Blackchisel down until the man bowed, stiffly. "As you wish, my lord." (as if it was every going to be any other way. Who did the man think he was talking to?)

I watched Blackchisel storm out, his boots leaving dusty prints across the office floor. The door slammed behind him with a satisfying crack that made several of the clay models wobble on their shelves.

"That's right, run along and sulk," I muttered, picking up the offending model again. "Just make sure you fix this travesty first."

The clay was still slightly malleable under my fingers. I traced the serene expression, remembering Shadowheart's actual face – the way her eyes would narrow when she was plotting something particularly devious, how her lips would curl into that knowing smirk when she caught someone in a lie.

The church's coffers would cover this expense nicely. After all, wasn't this exactly what they were meant for? Preserving the truth of how an awkward wizard became a god, and all the broken, beautiful people who helped shape him along the way?

I set the model down and moved to the window, watching Blackchisel's stocky form disappear into the crowded street below. Fifty years of silence from our divine friend hadn't dulled my determination to tell this story right. Eighty years since that last night together hadn't changed what we'd all meant to each other. Two centuries, give or take, didn't lessen the impact these people had made on the world. This world was still here because of them, and they deserved to be seen by it.

Let Volo's heirs continue to sell his misshapen tales. Let the sculptors try to sand down our edges. They hadn't been there. They hadn't seen us bleed and laugh and break and triumph. They hadn't watched a man become a god, hadn't felt the weight of that transformation shake the very foundations of reality.

I wouldn't let them reduce us to palatable fairy tales and sanitized saints. We were better than that. More complicated. More real.

I went to the sideboard to pour myself something to wash away the aftertaste of the last encounter. I swirled the amber liquid in my glass, watching it catch the afternoon light streaming through my office windows. The historians would be here soon, ready to argue about every little detail of our time in Grymforge. As if they'd been there. As if they'd felt the heat of the forge, heard Nere's vicious demands, or watched Karlach's face light up at the sight of all that adamantine.

"You'd love this," I muttered… to no one in particular, taking a generous sip. "They're trying to avoid any mention of slavery at all. As if Karlach didn't threaten to throw that pompous dwarf into his own forge when we saw what they were doing.  And then actually did throw him in the forge."

The empty office didn't answer, and neither did any divine voice. (Not that I expected he would.) (I always expected he would. Every single time.)

Fifteen minutes until the next round of tedious corrections and careful objections.

I eyed the offending sculpture again, remembering Sebastian's work in that hidden settlement. The way his paintings had captured not just images, but entire souls. The mural of freed spawn dancing in sunlight had nearly brought me to my knees that day we had met – their joy so pure it stopped me in my tracks at my vengeful, broken worst and held me there until the cracks had healed enough for me to move on.

Blackchisel could never match that. It wasn't his fault, really. He was skilled enough with his chisels and clay, one of the best, but he hadn't lived it. Hadn't felt the weight of centuries of chains falling away, hadn't known the precise shade of hope in Shadowheart's eyes when she finally chose her own path.

"Sebastian would know exactly how to show her," I muttered. "He'd get that little curl in her lip just right, that glint in her eye when she was about to do something particularly ruthless..." I knew he would because he'd seen straight through my own carefully constructed walls, had painted truth onto canvas until I couldn't hide from it anymore. Hells, he'd known these magnificent people himself, even personally witnessed one of the most crucial moments, in that dark pit of Cazador's dungeon.

But I couldn't ask him. Not after everything. Not after walking away, choosing my restless nature over his steady warmth. He'd do it, too – that was the worst part. He'd pour his heart into capturing these memories, these people who'd shaped my life, and he'd do it perfectly. And it would break something in both of us all over again. Wouldn't it?

That door was closed. Had to stay closed, for both our sakes.

I set the drink down, stretching muscles that didn't need stretching, picked the glass up again, and stepped back to the window. Below, the city sprawled out in its usual chaotic dance. Somewhere past those walls, past the politics and the posturing, the Sword Coast was waiting. I'd heard interesting rumors about some ruins near Candlekeep – supposedly untouched since the Time of Troubles.

I'd spent the past few weeks looking back at our history, and I was eager to look forward again for a time.

But first, this needed to be done right. The plans for the temple wing were nearly complete, the statue prototypes almost perfect (except for that disaster of Shadowheart's first iteration), and the historical accounts... well. They'd be accurate once I finished beating the truth into these scholars' thick skulls.

I drained my glass. "The things I do for you lot," I muttered, straightening my collar. "Making sure they get your stories right. As if any of you cared what history thought."

But I cared. Someone had to. Someone had to make sure future generations knew exactly who had saved them, who had bled and died and lived and laughed while the fate of the world hung in the balance.

The clock chimed the quarter hour. Time to go explain, again, why we couldn't possibly have taken the diplomatic approach with the Absolute's forces in Grymforge. Why sometimes the only answer was violence and a very, very hot forge.

* * *

Gale materialized in Mystra's domain, a swirling nexus of pure magical energy that once felt like home. Now it chafed against his divine essence, foreign and unwelcoming. Mystra sat upon her throne of pure Weave, her form shifting between mortal beauty and raw power.

"You're the last holdout," Gale said, cutting through the formalities. "Even Lathander withdrew his complaint."

Mystra's laugh echoed through the chamber. "And you think that means I should follow suit?"

"I think you're letting our past cloud your judgment." Gale moved closer, his own divine presence pushing against hers. "This isn't about my church or my influence on mortals. This is about us."

"You dare suggest I'm that petty?" The Weave crackled around them.

"Yes, I do." Gale met her gaze. "You had complete power over me once. I was your chosen, your lover, your puppet. Then I refused to beg for your forgiveness and took my own path."

"You stole an artifact of immense power—"

"Two, actually. And became something you couldn't control. That's the part you care about—not the orb, not the crown—and you know it." Gale's voice hardened. "Your followers still worship you. Your power hasn't diminished. Yet here you are, trying to keep me from even speaking to my friends."

"Your attachment to mortals makes you dangerous."

"No, my understanding of mortals makes me effective." Gale stepped onto the dais, ignoring the warning pulse of magic. "You're not protecting the divine order. You're punishing me for choosing my own destiny over yours."

Mystra rose from her throne, her form solidifying into the woman he once loved. "You think you understand power now that you've tasted godhood? You know nothing of what it means to truly shape reality."

"I understand enough to know when someone's acting out of wounded pride rather than divine necessity." Gale held his ground as the Weave writhed around them.

Mystra's form flickered, and something in her expression shifted. The raw power emanating from her throne dimmed, leaving just... her. The woman he'd known.

"You hurt me, Gale." Her voice carried none of its earlier thunder. "Even now, after gaining everything you wanted—godhood, freedom, power—you never once thought to visit. Never once considered that you might owe me more than spite. Never even thought to ask yourself what we should be to each other, as peers. I am, perhaps, not the only one acting out of wounded pride."

The words hit him like a physical blow. He'd spent so long viewing their relationship through the lens of reviling her for the manipulation and control that he'd forgotten the genuine connection they'd shared. Once, he had taken responsibility for everything that had gone wrong between them, and Astarion had helped him see the truth.  Then, perhaps, he had swung too far the other way. He'd thought only about his own grievance and not about taking responsibility for the part he had played.

"You're right." The admission felt strange on his tongue. "I've been..." He paused, weighing his next words carefully. Would any apology now seem calculated, a mere bargaining chip?

As if reading his thoughts, Mystra said, "Try. Just try telling me the truth."

Gale let his divine mask slip away, showing her the person he'd been - still was, underneath it all. "I'm sorry. Not for keeping the crown nor for becoming my own man - that was my right - but for how I handled everything between us afterward, for never even trying to talk to you about it. For avoiding you once we became peers.  That showed a lack of long-term perspective, as you say. I was terrified of being controlled, of losing myself again, but I..." He met her eyes. "I should have grown beyond it."

The Weave around them softened, its harsh edges smoothing into gentle waves of power. Mystra stepped down from her dias, and for a moment she looked exactly as she had the first time they'd met - brilliant, beautiful, and achingly real.

"That's all I needed to hear," she said quietly. "You may have your wish, Gale Dekarios, Gale of Waterdeep, Gale, upstart God of Ambition.  I will withdraw my complaint, if you will hear me—actually hear me—first."

"I'll listen," Gale said, though his stomach twisted at her knowing expression.

"Good. Sit with me." Mystra gestured, and two chairs materialized from the Weave. Not thrones, just comfortable seats for a difficult conversation.

Gale settled in, relieved at the progress but wary of what came next. The familiar scent of magic surrounded them, bringing back memories he'd tried hard to forget.

"Tell me," she said, "what have you actually done with your isolation from the mortal world besides rage against it?"

"I've built my domain, established my—"

"No. What have you done with yourself?" Her eyes held that penetrating wisdom he'd once found so compelling. "Which of our fellow gods have you truly gotten to know? What have you learned about divine governance while you've been sulking about mortal connections?"

Gale opened his mouth, then closed it. He'd spent countless hours watching Astarion through divine sight, monitoring his old companions, building elaborate plans to circumvent restrictions. But actual relationships with other gods? Understanding his new role?

"Your silence is telling." Mystra leaned forward. "And your followers – have you noticed how creative they've become without your constant intervention? How they've interpreted ambition in ways you never imagined?"

Gale thought of Astarion's irreverent services, the way his church had evolved organically. "They've... surprised me," he admitted.

"Because you couldn't meddle. Sometimes need breeds innovation." She paused. "When Ao lifts these restrictions – and he will – what's your plan? Rush back to your old life?"

"Of course I—" Gale stopped, struck by the realization that he hadn't even considered other possibilities.

"Oh, beloved scholar." Mystra's voice held centuries of understanding. "You weren't always quick to answer without studying all angles first. Your mortality still shows, dear one. Not in your form, but in your thinking."

The truth of it stung. He'd approached godhood like a wizard approaching a new spell – technical mastery without truly understanding the deeper implications.

Gale shifted uncomfortably as Mystra's words cut through his defenses. "When was the last time you attended a divine council meeting without challenging every speaker? Or asked Oghma about the responsibilities of knowledge? Or sought Tyr's guidance on justice?"

Gale scrambled for a defense, but the memories of his behavior flooded back. The way he'd dismissed Lathander's concerns about morning rituals. How he'd scoffed at Helm's warnings about impartiality. Each interaction marked by his certainty that he knew better.

"They see a former mortal who grabbed power and now presumes to tell them how divinity should work." Mystra's voice held no judgment, just stark truth. "You haven't earned their respect, Gale. You haven't even tried."

"I didn't want to play their political games," he said, but the excuse sounded hollow even to him.

"Politics? No. This is about understanding the weight of divine responsibility. You rail against restrictions while showing no comprehension of why they exist." She leaned forward. "Do you know why Helm stands guard? Why Kelemvor must remain neutral? Have you bothered to ask?"

Gale floundered for a retort and found none. He'd been so focused on what he wanted to change that he'd never questioned why things were as they were.

"You're positioning yourself as a revolutionary," Mystra continued, "but you don't understand what you're revolting against. The other gods see a child throwing a tantrum, not a peer offering insight."

"I'm not—" Gale started, then stopped. Wasn't that exactly how he'd been acting? Demanding attention, refusing guidance, holding grudges, insisting on his way without considering millenia of divine experience?

"They won't respect you until you respect them," Mystra said softly. "And right now, you're making it very easy for them to dismiss you entirely."

Gale's divine essence churned with embarrassment as Mystra's words stripped away his defenses. She'd always had that ability - to see right through him. Now her gaze held that same penetrating wisdom, but tempered with something softer. Something that made his discomfort worse.

"There's more," she said, her voice gentle in a way that made him want to disappear into the Weave itself. "Will you hear it?"

He nodded, unable to find his voice. The magical energies around them shifted, becoming almost... protective.

"I've watched you, Gale. Not out of spite or jealousy, but because I know you. The scholar who would spend days debating philosophical points, who approached every challenge with careful consideration." She leaned forward, her form flickering between divine radiance and the woman he'd known. "This impulsive rebel isn't you. And I've asked myself why you behave against your character."

Gale's throat tightened. "You have a theory."

"I do." She paused, studying him. "I think you're trying to reshape divinity because you can't admit that perhaps... perhaps this isn't the role you truly want."

The words hit him like ice water. He started to protest, but she raised a hand.

"Not because you're unworthy," she continued. "But because it's not what calls to your soul. And rather than face that possibility, you're trying to remake the entire divine order."

"I chose this," Gale said, his voice rough. "I took the Crown—"

"You did. But choosing something doesn't mean it's right for you." Her expression softened further. "I would welcome you as a true peer, Gale. The pantheon would be richer for your presence - if you can embrace what that means. But if you can't..."

She left the thought unfinished, letting him fill in the implications himself. His mind raced with possibilities he'd refused to consider, questions he'd buried under divine ambition and mortal attachments.

"Think on it," she said. "That's all I ask."

* * *

220 years AB

[A letter written in elegant script on expensive vellum]

My dearest Halsin,

I must say, that last "eligible bachelor" you sent my way was quite the specimen. A druid, naturally—and one who could transform into a bear, no less. How terribly original of you. Though I suppose I deserved it after sending that Harper agent to your grove. (In my defense, she really did need help identifying those "mysterious herbs" in her garden. The fact that she was charming, beautiful, and utterly fascinated by your "natural wisdom" was purely coincidental.)

But darling, a bear-shifter? Really? Are we being a touch obvious with our proclivities? Not that I'm judging your... particular tastes. After two centuries of watching you frolic through the forests, I've developed quite the education in druidic mating habits.

You'll be pleased to know this last matchmaking attempt ended rather spectacularly. Your druid friend insisted on demonstrating his transformation abilities during dinner. Unfortunately, he forgot about the low ceiling in my dining room. The chandelier will never be the same, but the look on the servants' faces was almost worth it.

I do wonder, though—what exactly did you tell him about me? He seemed particularly interested in my neck. (If you've been sharing those old stories about my "specialized taste in companionship," we're going to have words.)

He did have some… fascinating theories about using mushrooms to communicate with trees. Unfortunately, he kept trying to get me to "reconnect with the soil." Barefoot. In public. I had to fake a holy vision from Gale just to escape.

In retaliation—because this is absolutely war now, old friend—I've sent you a simply captivating scholar visiting from Candlekeep next week. Very interested in ancient elven poetry.  Has promised to recite for you Silvanus's verses on mulch.  All seventeen volumes.

With deepest affection and absolutely no ulterior motives whatsoever,

Astarion

P.S. There's a lovely silver-haired ranger arriving the tenday after next. Don't worry, I've already told her all about your heroic exploits. She seemed particularly interested in your ability to "commune with nature." You're welcome.

P.P.S. Stop trying to set me up with clerics. The last one tried to turn me. Twice.

[obscurecurse]

have been unable to close a tab of this image for weeks...

it was what isozaki called, "re-ruined hiroshima." when receiving his pritzker, he said, "the first time i thought about architecture was its absence."

this was 1968, so in addition to having literally watched the destruction of japan as a teenager, he was also very much responding to 1960s proposals of utopia. everyone in the profession was still reeling from the 1930s shit like broadacre city, radiant city. isozaki's peers were all designing their own utopias.

my <3 contrarian <3 said, "dystopia." he took photos of leveled japan and started to draw settlements on them. i've always thought of them as crude geodesic domes, though i wish i could ask him about these forms and their meaning. i wish i could ask him who the first person he showed these images to was. i wish i could know how it was received.

every book i read about the future of cities talks about the outcome of us living in ruins. that is always one possible way forward.

and then there's obviously the hopeful reading on this image - this idea that people would just rebuild if it happened again. but he called it "re-ruined hiroshima." this was four years after he had proposed that tokyo was beyond saving and that we must build a second city above it. he thought cities were beyond saving.

it's funny to me. with the AI stuff. you always get some boring asshole who starts talking about how computers will replace architects. we won't need people to design buildings anymore. i disagree, but i don't actually want to talk about that. it's more the fact that some guy always brings it up. it's evidence of a deeper general identity crisis. modern designers can't decide if they're artists or something more technical.

i don't know if you could convince me we "need" architects in the first place. so the idea that something would come along and negate them is just... lost. you are lost if you are worrying about that.

but i wish i could ask isozaki, too, about this. do we need architects, if we are living in informal settlements? is re-ruined hiroshima about how we don't need architects in a future where we can't reach some kind of equilibrium in our relationship with nature and with each other? is that what he was trying to say?

i think i'm so drawn to this because it feels honest. it's lonely. there are no people in his renderings. no one wants to live like this. i wish i could ask him if he was contending with this stuff: there's no such thing as utopia. we do not need architects.

it's so blackpilled. he's in the dream blunt rotation, for sure.

i need to print out a hq scan of this on the Big Printer at the office and hang it on my wall.

[trudemaethien]

longshot/sgt fox + turn

immediate thoughts: coruscant rush hour traffic and watchman bent bullet trajectories, kennedy conundrum, parkour

aaaaand i just realized this said SGT fox dammit dammit dammit OK u get a bonus (under the cut), while I go write the right Fox smdh@myself

“I know 501st is our companion battalion and all, and I do want to see those yahoos again, I do, but at the cost of having to hot-bunk? Sheesh, haven’t had to trade off a bed with a brother in a hot minute.”

“Oh, quit your bitching, Longshot, because if the logs officer hears you he might assign you to share with someone who farts uncontrollably, or wets the bed or something,” Trapper teased loudly, grinning. “Oh look, it’s your turn. Wish ya luck!” With that he gave Longshot a shove up to the billeting window.

The logs officer, who had a side-shave and a little neutral symbol tattooed on their face peeping out from the fall of curls across their other cheek, glanced up at him and passed a smaller-than-usual stack of bedding out of the window. “Your five-oh-first partner has the rest and is already in residence,” they intoned with the air of having already said it a hundred times and planning on scores more. “3-76 in ba—hang on—“

But Longshot had already snatched up the auto-printed tag of flimsi. “3-76 in bay 22, what’s the matter with it?” he inquired with an edge of suspicion.

The logs officer sat on their hands and looked like they’d been dared to shoot the extremely salty, sour undiluted electrolytes from a ration packet. “Nothing,” they said tersely, impatiently.

“Uncontrollable farting? Pees the bed?” Longshot pressed, and the logs guy bit back a smile in spite of themself. They’d definitely heard Trapper giving him a hard time.

“So…?”

“Nothing,” they repeated. “Just, ah, recognized my own bunk number—I promise I’m not some yahoo who makes a mess, don’t worry. You’re not weird or gross or anything either, are you?”

“Depends,” said Longshot flirtatiously, leaning on the window’s pass-through ledge, “on just what weird kind of mess you mean.” He winked reassuringly.

Behind him Trapper groaned.

“Hm,” the trooper said, noncommittal.

“You got a name, new bunkmate?”

“What’ll it take for you to turn that tag back over to me?” they countered.

“Your name,” Longshot insisted, pushing his luck.

They stared at him for a moment, considering. “You’re holding up the line,” they finally said, prim as anything. “I’ll find you later, I’m sure. Move along.”

Smirking, Longshot stepped off. “Well, you know where I sleep.”

Hot-Bunk, Bunkmate 🔒 https://archiveofourown.org/works/51632134

Bonus (cdr fox):

“I said you could fill out your ranks with shinies, Two-Four, not kriffing Jedi, you absolute cheat!

“I did not! And kark off with that number bullshit, Tenten. In front of my men?”

“What the hell do you call this, then?” Fox gestured to the impossible marked trajectory, motions abrupt and infuriated. “There is no way in the realm of un-force-assisted physics that a trooper could pull off a longshot like that.”

“Oh, I like that,” said an awed voice behind Fox and he whirled to see the starry-eyed shiny listening in—not that he was being particularly circumspect in his tirade. “Can that be my name, Commander? Longshot?”

“No,” said Fox direly in the same breath as Cody overruled him.

His voice was fond and approving and full of shit. “Of course it can, it’s an excellent name, ‘37,” Cody said without looking at Fox.

The newly named Longshot did, however. “Thank you, sir, it really is—a good name and a high compliment.”

“It was not a compliment,” Fox grumbled. “You special in the head?”

“No, sir, no, of course not, forgive me” the kid said, still mostly unsubdued but at least trying to act respectful.

“I’ll —maybe— consider forgiveness, if you can explain to me in detail how the kriff you got it to turn like that?!”

“Certainly,” Longshot said, cheeky again, “over a cuppa caf?” No ‘sir’ now, was this punk flirting?

The absolute audacity.

Not many people knew what an unfortunate blusher Fox was and the tally had just gone up. Fox decidedly didn’t look at Cody who was definitely smirking like a vat-reject.

“Make it something stronger,” Fox said, grappling his dignity back under control, “and you’ll be the one paying, Longshot.”

If he’d gotten one illogical shot to hit an improbable target, why not let him go for another?

Bullet Bending 🔒 https://archiveofourown.org/works/51632269

[kahztiy]

BOOK SYNOPSIS: This story is an unfolding suite of chapters clarifying my book, The Code: Horizon of Infinity—a philosophical memoir exploring how the universe sculpted our minds. Through Aetheria, the lens of consciousness, aware of her need for a body to reveal herself and exercise her wishes, the narrative leads to her birth and the name she will claim: Sunshine -- Step into this journey of becoming, where the cosmos whispers its secrets, and identity blooms like dawn.

CHAPTER SYNOPSIS: Michel arrives as the night swallows familiar faces, his mind still mapping invisible currents. Kuta flickers with neon and memory, Iluh slipping just out of reach. Between whispered astrology and restless roads, signals ghost across Bali’s fractured landscapes. The city pulses with dance and dissonance, while Michel lingers in quiet entanglements. In the mountain’s breath, a quiet knowing—Francine’s fire still flickers, even here.

[YD6-64(TRT) Chapter Code] Mentor: Mapping Microwaves, Drifting Through Bali’s Signals

By mid-October, after Michel disembarks into the grip of Friday night, his three team members unload the microbus -- small figures, dwarfed by the suitcases in hand and strapped to their shoulders. Through the Chinese entry pavilion, they approach the open-air redwood reception desk. Bustling around, Michel before scattering -- vanishing, as if swallowed whole by Nyx.

Amidst the disembarking chaos, Michel barely acknowledges me, his thoughts still wandering the wilderness. He knows he is about to meet an unfamiliar face to the team. His survey had led him to a remote post office, showing in his demeanor -- a man caught in the echoes of a telegraphed message from the Paris TRT Philips home office, expectation hanging in suspense. Until a casual voice ripples from the silence: “On peut avoir á manger ici?” -- Can we have something to eat here? 

“Il y a le restaurant Japonais!” -- There's the Japanese restaurant! I suggest, sharing with Michel how I've woven myself into a whimsical week in town, walking away. We stream like a breeze around the block, welcomed like a zephyr. The kimono-clad waitresses greet me with familiars smiles, as though I belong here. Michel streams by scattered patrons, while the girls swirl around us.  

Knowing each other’s twin, in a glance, we swirl in the current, bypassing the bar’s vacant stools where a barmaid attends in silence. My mind flips -- ripples into the previous evening, drawn back into memory. “Swan-Lake Iluh” -- a name she earned in the soft wake of Iluh, whose little capuchin monkey, jumped shoulders to claw mine. With Ilhu and the manageress absent that night, the girls’ spirit blurred in the aftermath of a share identity, distorted my perception. 

Ilhu stands before me, draped in a loose, sunlit-print shirt, colors crackling autumn oak foliage beneath a golden canopy. Her smile captured my heart. “Come here,” I say, She glows, her whole being responding. The petite Balinese girl rounds the open end of the bar. Stepping in slim-fit brown slacks, she approaches to stand by my side, while I ignore before me the fruit cocktail she has served. My mind doodles over a medley of neon signs and flickering lights swirling through Kuta’s streets before the town stirs awake. Straight from my heart, the words roll out. “Do you want to go to the disco?”

“That’s not for Balinese people,” she says. “My boss do not want it.”

I frown, breezing a thought -- ’Aren’t you free… Why?’ But then I exclaim, “Your boss. . .” I dare not finish my thought, yet lingering -- ‘Does he. . . she. . . own you?’ 

I walk out into the night, the cosmic music echoing in my mind: 

“I could have danced all night, I could have danced all night

And still have begged for more

I could have spread my wings and done a thousand things

I've never done before . . .”

Michel and I drifted toward a table, pulling back the chairs before settling a short distance from the karaoke stage. A kimono-clad waitress approaches, we order our meal, I push a brief question. “Where is Iluh?”

“Five.” The waitress replies. 

I didn’t grasp, and yelp, “What?”

The waitress gestures, “Five minutes,” clarifying she will be coming. 

Michel and I acquaint amidst teasing laughters, our attention diverted toward the kimono-clad waitress gliding over with the drinks. She lingers at my side. I wave at a chair. Another waitress places a sushi plate before Michel, then one before me. Glancing up, I asked again for Iluh. 

“Coming,” she says. 

Iluh’s silhouette fleeting the glow of the kitchen door, passing, offering no more than a regretful gesture before she melts into the bar’s shadows.

In the drift of our conversation, Michel flip, “Gemini,” when I asked his birth sign. Born in the year of the Rooster, he’ll be preening his feather -- offhand, he refrains from mentioning Nina, but he is emphatic, in the orbit of his work -- “Waiting for my girlfriend, to join me.” 

As the waitresses clear the table, he rises. “I have to finish work for printing off,” he says. I’m shedding glimpses toward Iluh, scattered like loose pages, as Michel circles the hall, his silhouette vanishing through the distant door into the night. Left to fine tune a land survey’s week on the road to report. I rise from the table, follow in Michel’s footsteps, but pause by an empty bar stool, lingering in conversation with the barmaids over a glass of wine. Then follow through -- stepping out into the night.

Circling the block, I enter the redwood Chinese pavilion. The garden lanterns cast lurking shadows, peeking from behind the trunks -- I’m no longer alone. Aetheria's magic mirage shimmers in the spill of the scattered lights. I swirl around the newel post, climbing the open-air stairs, veering onto the Chinese loggia, my gaze past Michel’s room. Last night lingers fresh in mind -- Nyx wakes beneath the moonlit fenestrated facade of the Japanese cottage upper floor from the black-tiled lean-to roof -- schism preventing the reach.

I extended a hand toward the bright eyes behind fine-rimmed spectacles -- elegant, a golden bracelet swaying at her wrist. Our hands pirouetted -- where hearts had earned their dance, entwined in the spirit of Swan Lake, suspended in memory.

By Monday morning, the night has unravelled, pulled away by an underhanded current. I meet Michel on the loggia, stepping toward the redwood stairs, descend upon a waiting crew below -- leaning against the counter, chatting with the young receptionist. In passing, Michel drew the slight men circling him deeper in the Chinese pavilion. 

I pause into the vacated space at the counter’s angle, greeting the petite’s receptionist, swallowed by loose, plain shorts and a shirt. I oversee her broad forehead, hair drawn into a ponytail, eyes up, yet sunk in the corner behind the redwood counter. Stealing the limelight by her exuding charm -- a daughter to the Balinese hotel managers. In my comings and goings during my past whimsical week. 

Yet, in the midst of a world where women hunker in the street, crudely painting the curb with a spatula-shaped brush, she carries an admirable ambition. When she muses, her voice light, her gaze drifts, lost in a soft glow of her imagination enrapturing: “I want to be a receptionist, or a secretary before I get married. . .”

Around Michel, his team moves bustling in their shadows at their feet on the dull paving. I’m taken aback by the ledge -- where a gleam washing across the terracotta quarry tiles, bleeding behind the petite receptionist, through the yawning doorway, into the chill of a clinical-white ceramic-tiled backroom. 

The jamb frames moose-faced yet elegant figures draped in canary yellow petal-fringed kimonos, cinched at the lower back with an exaggerated red butterfly tie. Their attire does not lend itself to a pair of room maids in a laundry-scullery, Yet a quiet sisterly care lingers. To the absurd, their feet -- the flip side of stylish -- Y-thong flip-flops skimming the tiles, while stand like statues graceful and unguarded.

As our words dance on the edge of laughter -- teasing, restrained -- restlessness gathers behind me. Sjefril stands there, his presence weighted, unease radiating in quiet pulses. He sees -- the playful, romantic current skimming across the counter. 

The engineer, sturdy on his feet, hesitates. His studious eyes, carrying a Virgo’s fatherly authority, waver in tides and ebbs, exuding flickering apprehensive from between Michel -- preoccupied with logistics -- and the quiet current passing between the girl and me. 

Sjefril’s gaze lingers amidst Michel’s busyness -- watching him trace routes over a map, issuing hushed instructions that weave over survey gears. Punctuating rhythmic thuds of hard-shell cases being loaded into the maroon Toyota Kijang parked just beyond the Chinese entry pavilion’s gates. Until, Sjefril’s restlessness uncoils behind me, a hesitant step winding up only to resurge -- wrestling with unspoken thoughts.

Then, bracing himself, Sjefril unleashes from the shadows of the backdrop steps forward -- a silent dare, his hesitation pressing upon me an unspoken fatherly warning. “Dangerous. . .” He exhales, holds his breath, warning himself the repercussions. He reads what he unknowingly mastered, what mushrooms within me, as I’m saying to myself. ‘It's going too far. . . my lovely!’ and echoing the music: 

“. . . where do you go to, my lovely,

When you're alone in your bed?

I read his expression -- his concern breaching through the melody, rippling beneath its echo. ‘All those strangers disembarking on the island, picking up our young girls. . .’ 

As Sjefril’s thoughts trail off, I chill a remedy -- shift my beam of sight. My pointillists golden rays, that had been basking the receptionist in a teasing glow, chaffing, illuminating -- pull away offside, dissolve into a broader scene around Michel and his crew. 

The warmth cools. Our chuckles fade, retreating from the crest toward a crescendo. Instead, my mind drifts -- to the crew, to the marron microbus, SUV, van-like, the snout of a small sedan -- not to be laughed at.  

 Sjefril follows Michel’s lead, stepping out of the entrance pavilion into the street. Michel tugs the skeletal, slight-framed officials along around the Kijang. In a burst, front and back doors swing open, silhouettes slip into the microbus, I'm meeting in the interior. With the closing doors, settle behind Sjefril as he leans forward, key picks the ignition, tweaks, the engine to a purr.

Beyond Sjefril’s head, and shoulders spilling from the backrest, the city street unspool, narrowing into a single-lane leading through the countryside. A truck heads toward us, but a tension rises in the approach, without either Sjefril conceding the asphalt band, and neither relent -- speed the rights to the single band of asphalt. The approaching windshield unveils the driver, freezing into a sculptured figure --  tense -- not sparing Sjefril's robust figure.  Kamikazes locked eyes, the stark white of pupils eclipsed in rigid concentration -- their silent game of persistence. At a last breath, both tug the steering wheel in sync, veering.  Tandem tires bite the beaten road shoulder. The truck cabin -- jack out the box -- to fear at the flanks window, to morph into an airbrush blur streak brush my window, to relent the cargo bed clear to peaceful countryside -- ‘You didn't fear me?’

I watched with fascination the driver's competency punctuated with bus, car, and winnowing villagers' scattered grains upon the roadway. The chaff lifted in the wakes.    

In a trickle of upcoming traffic, Michel, from the passenger seat, a topographic map sprawled across his lap, monitors the roadway shifting orientation. Blind to a median island, he is guided by the hand signals of a fool’s trick -- a dummy traffic police officer for deceiving drivers entering town. He tracks the trip odometer through a far spread village emerge tracing the invisible course against the broken skyline of forests and fields, rooftops and treetops where the microwave ghost a high-voltage cable swagging between the imaginary pylons. Yet to sketch a trellis against the sky.

In the open fields straggling the village houses, we pull over on the road shoulder to an expanse of bristle-green fields. Yet, the absurdity wanes, after Michel leans over underneath Sjefril's gaze, checking out Sjefril voice, “twenty-five kilometers,” before straightening and records from our base, our course creeps an inland course along the island of Bali coast. He resets the Kijang’s counter to zero. A midway course, resetting, before I step out, the two officials lingering close -- observant, assisting, carrying the sister calibrated altimeter. I'll learn to read, tracing the earth’s curvature from shielding signal interference across the landscape.

Michel’s body language chats through his procedures with the crew, as I’m absorbing knowing he’ll discharge me from his footsteps sometimes in the future -- he reads atmospheric pointers off the altimeter, marking notes on the map. Driver and passenger door swing open, we're meeting settling inside, to a choir of smacking the doors shut. After Sjefril’s assurance glance, all passengers are settled, we pull off. Following the leading asphalt ribbon unwinding a leading course through the countryside. 

We halt along tufts of trees, punctuating a stop and drive-offs, measuring the peaks of treetops, Sine computations map the swarming Fresnel Zone. Calculating the signal’s future arc.

Arriving in a village, with a different atmosphere, as our accompanying officials unveil his security clearance, to the leading telecommunications officer, guide us to the telephone exchange. Telecommunications officer, greets the Varuna telephone operator, to an existing town’s network. The operator with a softer underlying army exchange of ranks, names, and purpose of our visit to withdraw and relax as Michel photograph the telephone station’s wall. Marked-off with red tape a square for the forthcoming Integrated Rectifier-Transmitter wiring the switchboard existing infrastructure. Tread an imaginary coaxial cable to the outside, photograph the terrain. Record the topographic eastern coat implant to a ghostly repeater sketches a pylon trellis against the sky, crowned with antennas, before returning to base, Michel keeps a close to Nina’s access.

When we ended our survey on the western coast, calibrated a stationary altimeter with the sea, around the Tanah Lot Temple. Our return trip, ends a survey, backtracking into the fall of the night. The cruise headlight beams, awakening the asphalt band from the black hole of its sleep in the night darkness. While over Sjefril’s shoulder, the dashboard a skyline of lights amidst the speedometer needle a few notches higher than 40 Km.  To encounter glares freezing, until, on a kamikaze dive, one and the other thaw breach the night, in a sweep speed partying headlight to eclipse ok n a temporary blindness. To discover heading through the midst of a skyline of flickering village sparse lights, only to enter in their midst to pull up outside the Chinese entry to the hotel.

“Come.” He steps away, through the entry pavilion and past the gates, where the crew before him has vanished into the shadows of the night. 

With our strides, the narrow streets of Kuta unfold ahead -- streets bathed in sunlight I have come to know during my whimsical wanderings of the past week. But now, in Michel’s whim, the figures ahead seem to amass into a crowd, a humming illusion that dissolves as we immerse into the flurry of Asian eyes and blond hair. The night is ousted by spilling lights of stalls with exotic fabrics and nightlife stores.

From the rows of fenestrated facades, a street counter’s aquarium lures Michel, while my mind scans the terrace restaurant's feeble glow expanding beneath a nomad’s tent, shielding the night -- a vast recess of open-air seating. To my surprise, Michel pauses. Restless fish seeming unaware that the passive lobsters at the bottom have their claws bound in rubber bands. Michel’s gaze sharpens, settling with a connoisseur’s ease. He brushes off like a speck of a Gemini’s uncertainty, asking, "On mange ici ? -- Are we eating here?" 

Baffled, hiding behind my ego, unversed, I watch as a woman dressed in a traditional plain dress approaches, her figures shifting through the blue-lit water -- assuming the air of a chef’s connoisseur. Michel’s eyes flick toward the open aquarium, his pointing finger dancing over exotic fish as the grab tongs hover. "This, this and this." The chef weight in before settling on a lobster claws cinched in black rubber bands. I shrink back. The hostess’ gaze turns to me. ‘And you?’ 

I focus on a particular fish, scales gleam reddish flickering in the water, but as I gesture, I lose sight of the swimmer, which she had yet to lock onto. She questions me, ‘Yes.’ I nod, though her scoops catches dark scales. Under Michel’s gaze, she questions again, "Finis?" I answer, "Ça me va -- That’s alright," nodding, ‘Yes,’ to the chef. 

Michel paces past the aquarium’s flank, trailing behind the chef. Short of her vanishing, we're threading through the rows of tables, where shadowed figures linger beneath dim lanterns, scattered ghostly among the wooden beams and trusses. 

We drift off the aisle, a few stretch tables, settling on a bench. As we talk, my gaze settles beyond -- in the depth of the terrace, where the chef has retreated, disappearing behind the hush of a Japanese paper wall of sliding doors folding her away. A frail young man unfolds from the sliding doors, meandering toward us. He arranges our place settings. He fetches a beer for Michel, a thick mixed-fruit juice for me. Then, the chef reappears -- an air of quiet ceremony in her step. She sets the dish before us, her voice shaping my first Indonesian word`Goreng' Announcing the platter she serves, saying, “Nasi Goreng.”

Eating my fish, I watch Michel before me -- after the exotic names, and the ritual of nimble fingers savoring lobster, garniture. From the drift of our conversation, Michel quiet open, divulges his fifty-seven years, waiting now for his girlfriend to join him. Michel has charted his course, mapping landscapes while entangling himself. Back in France, his wife, once plucked from a life of prostitution, now unwavering manages, his three-house estates.

The waiter returns with a bowl of water, a napkin, we stand up, and drift away, toward the trickling street beyond the aquarium. I catch myself feeling sorry for the chef, lingering nearby, to draw customers from the crow with a curious glance at the glass-lit blue world of fish. To my dismay, Michel pays -- graceful -- the entire ritual unfolding of a man unsure what to do with the money he earns, although laughing off the bill of 50,000 rupiahs -- ‘Whoa?’ I sigh in silence. 

Casual, weaving through the shades of the nightlife street, among a flurry of shifting eyes, we drift further -- until the Peanuts character. Snoopy, helmeted, scarf trailing in the wind, perched from a street sing. The beagle, after racing his kennel, find himself saddled. Bigger than a human, giant to a gable. With the roof extending wings over a blatant facade trembling, the muffled throb of disco music. 

With Michel’s confident strides, I grow skeptical on the courtyard’s dirt apron. Beneath Snoopy’s watchful perch, a pink-miniskirted, perky young blond tempts a Harley-Davidson -- an ill-matched pair, though cute -- while the chatting bouncers remain oblivious. Michel’s gaze darts past, slipping through the pair of men in printed T-shirts, detached from their security duty.

As the door swings open, I flinch against the blizzard of sound. I creep behind Michel, unfazed, as he moves up to the front desk. Fumbling for ear mufflers against the fraying assault on my cochlea, I follow in suite -- while he hands over the entrance fee -- 5,000 Rupiahs -- to receive a ticket, I’m drawn to know its use. 

Michel, carving a path through the accent-thick crowd of rugged men with their Australian twang, fraying at the crowded belt around the toe of a horseshoe bar. I follow my mentor to the far heel, breathing a little space. Michel leans up to the counter, leaving the ticket behind, the pieces of the puzzle come together, as his drink was served. I order a rum and coke, with a drink at hand, to my disbelieve he slips away, effortless into the rhythm of the pub crawl, his ease at blending in stark contrast to my hesitance. 

I don’t warm up to the floor-pulse chaos -- the squeeze of bodies, the assault of the sound. Olive-tinted young men buzz feverish, lost in the mix of fair-faced women, their buttocks fattened, swaying laughing, shedding inhibition sip by sip. Michel’s voice troubles the words he attempts to form -- until, I breach my hesitation, piercing the din. “Michel -- excuse moi, je pars -- excuse me, I’m leaving!” 

Without a flinch, Michel stays as I turn my back on the folly of a drinking competition. The door shuts behind me, muffling the pulse. Leaving the pretty and young teeter on the edge of heat and recklessness, stir in mind. I cross the gritty apron into a villagey night, my ears drumming. Strolling from statue to a glazed building, pass the ghosting women painting the curb. Prolong the drain trench, to press the gate to the Chinese pavilion. I turn the newel post, gaze through the open stairs. Veering on the loggia, pass the middle window to the door folding and hinge back. Shedding my shoes, my clothes and dive into bed, into the arms of Morpheus.

I awake, glancing at the curtains aglow with waking soft light -- then freeze, ears pricking, detecting body movements. My hydra-headed mind, ears where eyes ought to be, stretching toward the loggia's end door. Thinking -- Michel, returning to his room -- I drift back into the arms of Morpheus. 

Awaken again, my hydra ears creeping into Michel’s room next door. By the whisper tumble threesome beach ball game, body motions -- or the lack of it -- I doodle in my mind a replica of my furnished room. His headboard against the paper-thin party wall, the restless rattle of movement one on either side, stretching a vacuum through the middle of the bed. 

Reasoning in all logic -- it’s Michel’s room, and he ought to be there alone. But that isn’t the frequencies being emitted from the double bed. I conclude he is stretched still, a silent divide -- his presence an emptiness of sound through the middle. Yet, on either side, at his flanks, the duet of women stirs in the ebb and tide of bodies, the rhythm of morphing figures -- side-sitting, leaning, reclining -- a choreography of motion unspooling. With a lasting though, ‘All this, and he is due to meet his girlfriend in the coming days?’ -- dies in silence. I doze off until the birds chirp in the tree canopies.

Sjefril steering the Kijang microbus by the interior of the engine’s muffled purr, with seating breathing space behind me, now vacant. Michel in the front passenger seat, his wards punctuate by backward glances, we ride out of Kuta. A trickle of weary cyclists borrows the beaten road shoulder, the odd motorbike weaving past, the leading asphalt band crisscross after a long ride, Michel signals Sjefril, to turn right. We pass the Club Med sign, leave the pointier behind. The tarmac fades -- abandons us to a ground beaten sleek road, spread shoulders by large seated bus route through dense forest. 

From the wilderness, offside, a gateway fresh and abrupt emerges, the road shifts, to a drive meandering through a groomed undergrowth, before the wilderness morphs to widespread park lawns, before white peeking fenestrated facades beneath pitched roof eaves. Sjefril veers to a roundabout, strangely pulls through the porte cochère to an entrance portal, further to a discrete halt. We step out, Michel avoids the clubhouse, contours, clearing the secluded grounds, to the seafront sports courts, the lawns dissolving into distant golden beaches.

Pieces of a jigsaw puzzle fit my imagination, Michel’s words echoing in my mind, “I used to coach tennis here on weekends. . .” He had repeated in casual conversations to exclaim, “I'm waiting for my girlfriend!” The whole image was painting itself, into the next day, after he said, “I'm moving to a more upstanding hotel.” and I couldn’t imagine a more beautiful home than in the midst of the Chinese Garden, next door to the Japanese restaurant.  

Our personal driver completes the tapestry of advantages as I sit beside Sjefril, the road stretching long ahead. As we ride inland, I glance behind -- Nina, burning with Aries Fire. Behind her, the wavering flames of Francine, I left behind in New York -- still creeping under my skin and pinching at my heart. 

Nina lost the typic Asian demeanor, into the Dutch colonizers, with Michel seated close with his young girlfriend, while on the flip side of telling our destination, my mind to a blank. The little engine at my feet, with an anxious whine, drive us straight up the mountain flank. Until the road rolling over the crest, unfolding amidst a bustling tourist outpost -- stalls circling a beaten apron. We step out, before the waterlogged volcano crater. In the midst of the mid-October sky, the blues stretch wide over Bali’s evanescent, turbulence landscape.

You are welcome to read all the chapters and explore more at my website: How the Universe Sculptured Our Mind. I spend an absurd amount of time chasing expression—perhaps to shame. But the challenge is mine, the shaping of my perceptions. The gift is yours: thoughts, echoes, reflections. I take them with gratitude. And you—who are you, reading these lines, stepping into my genre, my style, the quiet current of my subject?

[stories-from-peter]

Artistic License

My sister Shirley has a friend named Ed who used to work as a cartoonist for a major daily newspaper in Toronto. Ed was quite eccentric and didn't like to work in an office. He preferred to drive around the city late at night until he had an idea for a cartoon. Once he had a firm concept of what he wanted to do he would drive to the newspaper office. The night watchman knew Ed from his regular visits and paid little attention to his late night visitor.

Ed would draw his cartoon and leave it on the editor's desk before heading out again. In the lobby of the newspaper there are several paintings of the founders of the newspaper hanging on the walls. Ed would make some small change to one or more of the paintings before leaving. It was never enough of a change that anyone would notice. He would add a hair or a mole or slightly darken some small part of a face that would never be noticed.

After a few years of Ed making tiny changes the small differences began to evolve into much larger ones. A moustache might slowly grow from two or three hairs into a full handlebar under the nose. A previously young face might acquire a few dozen wrinkles after a year or so. A head of gray hair could slowly darken over the months. People walking through the lobby every day or even once every few weeks had no clue that anything was different from their last visit.

There was one visitor who did not fit into the category of disinterested. The widow of one of the founders stopped by the paper for a visit. She could not neglect to gaze at the portrait of her beloved husband as she walked through the lobby. She looked up at the group of portraits and her husband's picture was not among them, nor did she recognize any of the other faces in the portraits.

Somewhat confused and a little angry, the widow confronted the management of the paper and demanded to know why her husband's portrait was no longer in the lobby. It didn't take long to figure out who the perpetrator was and Ed was soon looking for work.

I thought Ed's idea was brilliant and one day I had the opportunity to do a little subtle redecorating myself. I worked for a printing company that employed a particularly annoying woman named Susan. One of our suppliers gave us a calendar with reproductions of classic paintings as the monthly pictures. Susan grabbed the calendar and declared it to belonged to her. She announced that she was taking it home at the end of the year and getting the prints framed.

An opportunity like that can't be ignored. Every day after Susan left the building I would take a pen or pencil and make a small change to the painting of the month. January had a classic madonna and child from centuries ago. By the time February came around the madonna had quite a mustache that nobody seemed to notice.

February had a bit of modern art with some large red squares. By March several rows of silver bells had appeared in the squares.

I left a couple of the prints alone when I couldn't think of what to add that would not be noticed. By September I was no longer able to keep making changes because I left the company for a better job. I wish I could have been at Susan's house the day she opened the calendar to start framing the prints.

[xexiar]

Keep Watching. 27

Ch26 Ao3

———

Chapter 27

After our introduction, Eric pulled out his phone from his pocket. I watched as his fingers moved as he walked over to the couch. He put his feet on the center table. “Get comfy, Izuku.” With that, I slowly made my way over to the other couch as well. It was then I noticed there was a gaming system with a few games next to it, which was under a large TV. “Do you play?” I nodded my head. “Go ahead. I’m texting the guys to come to meet the newbie.”

Before I could say anything, a group of guys came through the door. Some had bags in their hands. “I brought the good stuff.” One closed the door, and then they all sat on the other couch or next to Eric. Then they started to reveal that they brought food and soda. “Don’t worry. I didn’t get anything that has alcohol.”

It didn’t take long before we all took turns playing Mario Kart. I had so much fun. It was almost like when I got comfortable hanging with the twins after school. I remember the day I met them fondly. It was almost my 12th birthday, and I was coming into a pawn shop with my dumpster-diving finds. It was then I spotted a very rare, limited-printed American Silver-Age All Might poster. At that, it was the same one that was worth roughly $3000 US. There was no way I would have ever afford it.

But because I came to that pawn shop often, the owner made me a deal. If I could deliver a few things to a nearby tattoo shop, he would give me the poster. I accepted without question. And when I went to that strange back alley shop, I was speechless. I have never seen people like this before. From the way they dressed and walked. The mannerism was also foreign to me. They reminded me so much of the Americans in one of All Might's documentaries. I believe it was the one where he was in New York.

After I did the delivery, I asked them if I could come back. They both gave me a weird look but said I could. From there, things seemed to get better for me; outside of school, that is. I began to do deliveries for them and the pawn shop regularly, and it paid very well. It was how I was able to afford a new phone and other things I wanted. Like the laptop that my mom doesn’t know about. The twins were also nerds like me, which made things easier, I guess.

Now look at me now. Thanks to the twins, I’m able to do a lot. Even if I didn’t meet All Might or gotten into UA, I still would have been a hero. I’m so blessed that I have them in my life. They’re like the older sister and brother I wished I had. So, I have to make them proud and get past the gym’s introduction. This is the least I can do to pay them back.

Come morning, I had to go back to the Exam Ward. But this time around, I wasn’t as scared. When I entered the office, I automatically sat in that doctor-like chair. “Good morning, Midoriya.”

“Good morning, Dr. Clarke.” I watched as she went over to a large wall and started to put up x-ray photos. “Are those all mine?”

“Yes.” I looked over to Mr. Jones as he kept typing away at the computer. “Before we do the introduction exam, we need to go over with you about our findings. But first,” He turned to face me and crossed his arms. “Do you know what your father looks like? Or at least have some information besides his quirk?” I quickly shook my head. He then got up and started to pull out something from his pocket. “Well, now you do.”

It turned out to be a photo of someone who looked so much like me. From the curly hair to the freckles. But unlike me, he had a much more of a square face. His shoulders were just as broad as mine. It didn’t help that his eyes were also as large as mine, but the shape was sharper compared to mom. He is heavily muscularly built compared to me. Or maybe I was too skinny to tell truly.

As I kept looking at the photo, it was so strange. Here I thought I looked just like mom, but I don’t. The only thing I physically have in common with her was the color of my hair, eyes, and skin. This man was slightly darker than me. Yet, there was something that stood out. It was his smile. My smile looks nothing like mom. Should I be happy to know where the majority of my features came from? I wasn’t too sure.

After I put the photo in my pocket, Mr. Jones and Dr. Clarke went about telling me what they found. I didn’t think it was possible, but I share my parents' quirk traits. “Shouldn’t that only be the case if you have a quirk?”

“Not always. It even happens to people who don’t have their parents’ quirks.” I looked at Mr. Jones as he tried to continue to explain. “Based on the fact your mother has a gravitational type quirk, it can explain all your bone symptoms. It appears that your skeletal structure has some unique characteristics. There is weak cartilage present between major bones, and low bone density overall. Additionally, you seem to have multiple fused bones, which could account for your lower bone count compared to an average person without abilities. These factors also explain why you are relatively lightweight. However, it does mean that you are well-suited to manage a gravitational quirk, given the properties of your bones. Before I go on, do you have any questions?”

As I tried to process what Mr. Jones just said, I was still confused. I didn’t really think my mom had that type of quirk, but now it kind of made sense. It wasn’t like Uraraka, who can make anything lose gravity and float. The way my mother’s quirk works is that she can bring things to her. Usually, it is small stuff. “Does that mean my mom’s quirk is weak?”

I looked up at Mr. Jones and watched as he tilted his head to the side and took a deep breath. “In short, yes. But the long explanation is that she never tried to strengthen it. At best, and what we found when looking through the medical history, her quirk works by creating her own gravitational pull. Which is also a weaker version of a magnetic quirk. But they are one and the same. Anything else before we could to the second half and majority of your DNA?”

Looking at the x-rays I did have a few more thoughts. “So, because my mom’s quirk is the reason my bones are weak?”

“Your bones aren’t weak.” That’s when I looked at Dr. Clarke. “Because of their low density and being fused, you’re able to withstand more weight than normal. In fact, with proper training, you can use this fact to your advantage. Then again,” She turned around and had a huge smile. “Based on what the Smiths say about you and how you were yesterday, your bones have been doing their job incredibly.”

“How so?”

“In a sense, you’re remarkably faster than any quirkless person. I met many people with speed and strength quirks, but none of them are as fast as your walking. A lot of times we do things unconsciously. So, based on your marks during training today, Mr. Jones can help you be more conscious of your actions.”

With that, I nodded my head. “Now, this is where things take an interesting turn.” I looked back at Mr. Jones. “Based on the samples we got from your blood and muscle scans, you align closer to your father. From the way your skin has an extra layer that protects from severe burns. Then, your muscle tissues are highly conductive. Even they have that extra layer of protection.”

“What does that mean?”

“You have a strong resistance to heat. You inherited this trait from your father who was a fire-breather. Your body has adapted to withstand high temperatures, with larger lung and heart muscles, hotter core temperature, and muscles around your spine that are denser and almost bone-like. When exposed to heat, your body can withstand major changes without much harm. This is where my concern comes from.”

“We believe this is the reason you never developed a quirk naturally.” The way I snapped to look at Dr. Clarke hurt my neck. “Your mother’s quirk would still affect your pinky toe to be fused. But you would have had a quirk regardless. Yet, the bone-like layer over your spine cancels out any quirk-related mutation. It is something so rare, that we both were surprised to see it. Which makes your case a fascinating one to look into. But only if you want to go down that route.”

The rest of the conversation was a blur as I was still caught by surprise by that one fact. So, it came down to the fact that the bone layer was the reason I didn’t have a quirk. If I never met All Might, would learning about this have me want to find a way to have a quirk? Can I do anything about this weird extra layer? Why did it have to be me? And then I had a sudden realization.

Is this the reason why I have always been able to handle Kacchan’s quirk? During the few times he actually used it against me, I never felt burned or how hot it was. I only ever had proof that I got hit by Kacchan when he physically hit me. Or the ash that comes from burnt clothes. I had never been truly affected by his quirk.

But then there was the training class when he came at me full force. Thinking about it now, most of my cuts came from the materials of our costumes. Like how mine shattered on impact. Or the fact that Kacchan’s gloves had a type of metal fiber that shot out alongside his quirk. Thinking about that somehow made me giddy. Doesn’t this mean I have always been able to handle Kacchan’s quirk? I should really test this theory whenever I get the chance.

Then I wonder how heat-like quirks actually work. Especially the ones that dealt heavily with fire. Now that I think about it, would Todoroki be able to answer a few of my questions? He is half-fire. But maybe he won’t know since he only ever showed that half during the first day of class. So, maybe I could take notes of it if he uses it during the sports festival. “Midoriya!” I quickly blinked and looked up at Mr. Jones. “You didn’t hear a word I said, did you, kid?” I shook my head. He let out a sigh. “Before we test out how your quirk works, we will be doing the basics. It would be best that we focused on your fire-related quirk traits.”

“Why is that?”

“Well,” I looked at Dr. Clarke. “Since they are the majority of your traits, it makes sense to develop those. Especially since they will help stabilize your gravitational traits. Such as the excess liquid build-up.”

“Excess liquid build-up?”

Dr. Clarke let out a small giggle. “One of the major traits of a gravitational quirk is retaining and producing high levels of internal liquids. Some people with this type of quirk would release this build-up either by crying a lot. Or trying to sweat it out. But most I know are just emotional and would rather cry. There’s also throwing up and even excess urination. That’s something that can differ from person to person.” Could that be the reason Uraraka throws up a lot after using her quirk for an extended amount of time? Or how she tends to run to the bathroom after training if she doesn’t throw up? It can also explain why me and mom tend to cry a river without getting dehydrated.

I soon followed Mr. Jones to the gym building. There, I spotted Eric near the center, punching the air. “Ok. First, you need to get into a ready stance, Izuku.” I tried to copy Eric, but it felt so weird. Almost as if I would fall. And so very awkward. “You’re off balance.” He then went about kicking my right leg more out, straightening my back. “Level your shoulders more. Bend the knees. Relax the arms. Chin up. Suck in your core. Bring your left foot more in. There we go.” Somehow, this was more comfortable but still awkward. “We’re going to start by doing a few warm-ups.”

Before long, Eric was correcting every punch I threw. The way I bounced on my feet. I didn’t know that I jumped higher than most people. But it was hard to stop putting pressure on my ankles. Especially since I needed to put the majority of my weight on the balls of my feet. “Why do I have to do this again?”

“Telling from how you walk and sit, your posture is all wrong. And in a fight, you would be in trouble. So, think of this as trying to correct your posture to be able to train.” The way Eric said that still didn’t make any sense, but I wasn’t going to question it. After an hour of just learning to throw a proper punch, we finally took a break. Eric handed me a water bottle. “Even with being off balance, you sure are strong. Once this is over, and you get the hang of things, you’ll be punching and kicking like a pro.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.” Eric then flexed his arm and grabbed his bicep. “You have the mindset for a lot of this stuff. Right now, we’re just trying to get your body to catch up. And with what I’ve seen so far, you’re stronger than you look. Since you’re doing your hero training, this should help you catch up to the others.”

At that, I couldn’t help but smile. I finished chugging down the rest of my water and got up. “Ok! I’m ready to go again.

“That’s the spirit.” We then went on to do a few kicking drills. After an hour of that, I found out that I had to fight Eric. “Now that you got the basics down, it’s time to show me what you got.”

…

After turning off my computer, I finally went to bed. While lying there, I couldn’t help but think about shitty hair. He was sweet to me and made me feel things. Then again, it was nothing like how Deku makes me feel. Shitty hair is cute with those dimples. But that was it. And that outfit he wore today was horrible. It was a good thing we were going to the mall tomorrow. What if it was Deku I went clothes shopping with?

Once I got to the mall, I texted shitty hair. Turns out he was running late. So, I decided to venture through a few shops. One of them was the store I usually get my boots from. Since I was by myself for some time, maybe I could look at the other stuff. Especially their clothes section.

My face was on fire as I looked at some of the shirts. There were a few that were fishnet material. What if I were to wear one of these? How would it feel? It would be great with that one outfit I really wanted to try, but I couldn’t do that. I needed to keep a certain image when I was out in public. My parents would be so disappointed if they knew. But… What if they didn’t?

At that, I decided to just go for it. I brought the shirt and a few of their ripped jeans. And before I left, I went and checked the female section of the shoe. There, I saw they had all types of skirts and crop tops. The male section had them, too, but not as cute. Especially nothing with such ruffles. Along with the crop tops in this section, they were more of a fitted material. I even spotted different versions of fishnet stockings. Even a makeup section closer to the center of the store. And that’s when I saw it!

I grabbed a few skirts and crop tops before going to the glass display. Taking a deep breath, I ask one of the workers about the collars and jewelry. Once I finished buying everything, I left the store. The only thing I have to worry about is finding a way not to let my parents find out what I got today.

I checked my phone and saw shitty hair texted that he was 10 minutes away. As I sat on a bench, I couldn’t stop feeling giddy. I couldn’t believe I got something that went past my parents' wishes. But at least I can enjoy these in private. Not like they need to know. I will still push forward and prove that I am number one in everything I do. And I’ll make sure to make them proud. Just I also need a little something for me.

[onetimetwotimesthreetimess]

congrats on your degree!

Can you write a lil something about post tmi pre bten malec just being young and in love

“You are so insufferable,” Alec laughs as Magnus keeps on disappearing the files from his hands.

“I don’t know what you are talking about, darling,” Magnus feigns innocence as he gets comfortable on the couch in Alec’s office.

“Of course you don’t,” Alec replies as he tries to hold on to the last file in his hands.

“I’m just helping reduce your workload, love.”

“Magicking away my files is not really reducing my workload when I’ll eventually have to get back to them,” Alec rolls his eyes in amusement.

“Sounds fake but okay.”

Alec snorts and smacks Magnus across his shoulder.

“I need to finish these reports by tonight. Mom’s going to be back tomorrow and then I’ll be free from all this bureaucracy thing for a while again,” He groans.

Magnus raises himself up from the chair and he moves to the other side and stands behind Alec. The warlock puts his hands on his boyfriend’s shoulders and starts massaging them gently, pulling a small sigh out of his boyfriend.

“Well, if you’re going to be the head of the institute then you might need to get used to the bureaucracy,” Magnus points with a chuckle.

He doesn’t miss the way the shadowhunter’s body tenses under his hands and he puts a bit more of pressure but it doesn’t work.

He bends down, places his head on top of Alec’s and wraps his arms around the younger man’s neck, “Darling?”

Magnus frowns as Alec doesn’t reply to him. He shakes the other man gently and repeats his words. “Hey. Is everything alright?”

Alec’s eyes soften and he nods, “Hmmm.”

Magnus scratches the man’s scalp softly. Alec turns the chair and rests his face against Magnus’s stomach, “Just tired.”

“So, I was right in hiding away your files, huh?”

Alec chortles at that and lifts his head up, looking lovingly at him, “Like 30%.”

“I’ll take that as a win,” Magnus comments. “Okay. I’m taking you home.”

It’s a few hours later when the two of them are cooking—well, Magnus is mostly cooking which is rare as it is, while Alec is just sitting on the counter, his legs hanging in the air.

“You could help me.”

“You told me that I’m not allowed to work anymore today. Make up your mind, baby,” Alec grins.

Magnus rolls his eyes in affection as he turns towards his boyfriend, who feeds him a bite of the protein bar that he’s eating.

He pauses for a minute and takes in the sight infront of him and his heart flips inside his chest.

Alec is wearing his worn-out navy blue sweater that always makes him look like the warmest of blankets on a winter’s night. He has Magnus’s silk minion printed pyjamas on and the entire outfit looks ridiculous but somehow the shadowhunter is able to pull it off.

His hair is fluffed out, since he’s just out of the shower and he’s biting onto the protein bar that he’s so addicted too like his life depends on it.

“Stop staring. It’s creepy.”

Magnus has some remark already on his lips but he ignores that in favor of sliding between Alec’s legs and wrapping his arms around his waist. And if there’s a dopey grin on his face, no one but Alec has to know about it.

“Staring from two inches away isn’t better than staring from thirty,” Alec smirks but Magnus doesn’t miss the slight blush appearing on his cheeks.

Magnus has never feared change, knows that time is fickle and even the most firmest of people and their actions can change in the span of a lifetime.

He’s never minded change. He’s used to it. He always accepts it with open arms.

But even Magnus wishes with everything that is good in the world that the way Alec blushes and smiles at him never changes.

“I love you,” Magnus breathes, his face right infront of Alec’s.

The shadowhunter’s face light up at the words and he wraps both his legs around Magnus’s waist to pull him closer.

“I love you, too, Magnus.”

They close the distance between them and Magnus kisses him. He bites his lips and Alec sucks in a sharp breath, his hold tightening around his shoulders.

When they eventually pull apart, Alec grins softly and pushes a strand of hair behind Magnus’s ears.

There’s a sound of a notification. It’s Alec’s phone.

Magnus snaps his fingers and the phone appears in his hands.

“It’s Lily,” Alec groans.

“What does she want?” Magnus asks and he turns and focuses back on cooking.

“She had some vampire business to deal with but I didn’t have any time in the past two weeks since I was the acting head in mom’s absence. It’s probably regarding that.”

“You’re already overworked,” Magnus takes snatches boyfriend’s phone and keeps it in his pocket, ignoring Alec’s indignant ‘hey’. “Tell her you will meet her in two days.”

Alec pouts and tries to snatch it back but fails. He pushes himself off the counter and hugs Magnus from behind.

He pushes himself closer to Magnus and bites at his neck, making him moan.

Magnus is getting lost in the touches, Alec’s dainty fingers on his waist when he realises what’s happening.

“Are you really trying to seduce me so that you can steal your phone back?”

Alec’s hand that was slowly making his way to his pocket stops mid-way and his eyes widens, “No?”

Magnus rolls his eyes in amusement as he turns. He puts an accusing finger on the shadowhunter’s chest, “You are such a shit liar.”

“You really think I would do that to you?” Alec feigns innocence and Magnus cannot help but smile at his ridiculousness.

“I do,” he replies and hands the phone back to Alec. “And I know you won’t stop until you know what Lily wants so here.”

Alec puts a hand up in the air in victory.

“Thanks. I’ll be back in a minute,” Alec kisses his cheeks and excuses himself.

It takes more than a good ten minutes by the time Alec is back and Magnus has the food plated up for the two of them.

“Sorry. Lily needed help and I lost track of times,” Alec apologises and pecks him.

Magnus brushes his apology off and takes out a chair for him to sit.

“Thank you.”

Alec looks more relaxed than he has in days. Magnus knows the head of the institute duties are tiresome but there’s something else bothering the man but he wants to give Alec the time to gather his thoughts.

He’s learned in the past two years that Alec needs time to process his thoughts before he can talk to Magnus.

They’re washing the dishes, because Alec refuses to use magic for everything and it seems like he needs the extra minutes before they retreat to their bed.

“I don’t want to be the head of the institute,” His boyfriend blurts out eventually.

“What?”

Alec sighs as he keeps on cleaning the plate and Magnus places a hand on his waist, snaps his fingers to clean the rest of the dishes and makes a soothing motion on the shadowhunter’s waist to ease his anxiety.

“I—I always thought that I wanted to run the New York institute. But I don’t think I want that anymore.”

He wants to be surprised but he isn’t. He knows Alec hasn’t really been satisfied any of the times he’s been requested to act as the head in Maryse’s absence.

“What do you plan to do then?”

“You know how I’ve been helping Lily and Maia and occasionally other downworlders right?”

Magnus hums.

Never in his centuries had he imagined that downworlders could ever come to a shadowhunter for help. Or vice-Versa.

“I want to continue doing that. I want to make the Shadowhunter-Downworlder Alliance official,” Alec says nervously. “I don’t mind being the head but I don’t think it’s what I really want. But ever since I started this—I don’t.. I don’t know, Magnus. It feels like this i what I need to do.”

Magnus pauses for a few moments.

He takes in the information. And keeps on repeating the words.

Shadowhunter-downworlder Alliance.

It’s like his chest grows a thousand inches at the words, at the love he has for Alec inside his chest. At how proud he is of the man he’s becoming.

“Say something?”

“You are a miracle, Alexander Gideon Lightwood.”

His boyfriend blushes at the words and Magnus takes him in his arms.

“Do you think I’d be good at it?”

Magnus has no doubt.

He kisses Alec’s forehead, “There is no better man for this job.”

[gaysimpsstuff]

Could I get a Hawks in his rut headcanon?

No problem, Anon! I’m sorry this took so long, I wanted it to be perfect since I really like thinking about Hawks’ avian traits, and I know people really like it too. I hope it’s good! 

Hawks Rut Headcannons

Genre: fluff, smut

Type: headcannons (so... many... headcannons)

Warnings: animal traits, Keigo being possessive af, the commission being assholes, sickness, food, breeding kink, lots of horny times

Other: most of this is based off of real research, but some of it also comes from personal preference. @keilemlucent and their fic Best Nest very much inspired many other headcannons, check them outI They’re one of my favorite creators, and the linked fanfic is one of my favorites! Hope it’s okay I tagged you here lmao

NSFW Taglist: @smolchildfangirl @combat-wombatus @mandalorian-baby-bird @waffleareniceandfluffy (Lemme know if you wanna be added to or removed from the Taglist)

Remember to check if requests are open before sending in a request. This was made while requests were still open.

Pre-Rut Behaviors

Grooming and Preening

Before his rut, Keigo starts to feel dirty. He just seems to accumulate more dust and dirt during hero work than usual. He’ll come back home grumbling about blood in his hair and little bits of concrete in/on his skin.

He will insist you clean him off. So you get to brush his hair, put creams on his face, and wash him off in the shower.

Finally, there’s the preening. If he lets you preen his wings, then you know he’s in it for life. He loves and trusts you with everything he has. 

Expect him to press his nose against yours a lot.

Possessiveness and Protection

You’ll notice he gets more clingy, more possessive of you. He gets really controlling in the days leading up to his rut, so you’ll be annoyed a  l o t.

Just text all your friends and family that you’ve been swamped at work, it’d be a little weird to say “hey guys, sorry I can’t hang out, my boyfriend’s horomones are crazy right now and he gets really insecure if I so much as exist near anyone but him.”

You would come home from work and he’s already on you, sniffing your body to see who you’ve been around, and to see if any of them were attracted to you at all.

If he had any kind of sneaking suspicion that anyone posed a threat, he’s literally laying on you and rolling on top of you to try and get his scent on you. Even if no one will smell it except him, he’s gonna do it.

He’s so protective of you, and if something tiny hurts you or makes you upset...

He.

Is.

Angry.

Someone was rude to you? He’s screaming at them.

Someone tries to hurt or touch you? You’ve got to hold him back to stop him from ripping that person apart limb from limb.

All that x100 when he’s approaching his rut.

One person accidentally bumps into you? He takes it as passive aggressiveness even if they’re very apologetic about it.

You stub your toe on a table? He’s smashed the table and burnt it then thrown the ashes in the ocean. 

If you’re sad about something he can’t beat up, he feels horrible. He’s not the best at comforting people, so he’s just grabbing onto you and not letting go, telling you how much he loves and cares for you, and just how amazing you make his life feel.

If you don’t give him enough attention, he gets really huffy, and it gets worse leading up to his rut. 

You lifted your hands from his head to reach for your buzzing phone? He’s already whining and pouting and begging you to give him more head-pats again.

Nesting

He’ll leave hints asking for you to make a nest, usually saying things like “Our bed needs some changing, don’t you think?” “Don’t you wish our space was more personalized?” 

If you don’t get the hint, he’ll be very sad, and he thinks you’re rejecting him. So you’d better be good at reading into things and realizing he’s approaching mating season and wants you to build a nest.

He comes home one day and sees you piled blankets, pillows, and dirty clothes in the living room, sprayed with his cologne and you’re cologne and/or perfume. He pulls you into his arms and spins around with you, giggling and laughing.

He’s so happy you made a nest for the two of you. 

He starts putting pretty shiny things he likes around the nest. Your toothbrush went missing and you found it in the mountain that was your nest.

Once, you were in desperate need of a clean shirt, and the only clean shirt you could find was in the nest. So you picked it up to put it on, and two seconds later, Keigo was in front of you, hands in your shirt, staring at you with such a fierce intensity, you felt almost like a villain.

He was very mad at you for taking things from your shared nest.

He leaves feathers all around the penthouse, but they’re all piled mostly around the nest, they’re for your protection so don’t try and throw them away.

Noises

He also gets really noisy, so he’ll be ‘singing’ and squawking and cooing constantly. He feels really bad about it so he might get you some noise-blocking headphones for when he’s screeching into the sky in the dead of night about how “THIS IS MY FUCKING TERRITORY Y’ALL MOTHERFUCKERS STAY AWAYYYY!”

You really think bird’s springtime songs are about love? Nah he’s mostly screaming about how he’s gonna fuck his partner and how the neighborhood  practically belongs to him.

Someone called the police once, tired of all the shouting, but the officers backed off when they saw who was doing all the shouting. Most of your neighbors are used to the screaming during early spring.

Rut End-game

On the third and second to last day before his rut, he gets a sudden burst of energy and an increased appetite. He refuses to eat anything unless you’ve made it though, so let’s best hope you can cook at least a little.

When he was younger, his hungry times before his rut were spent either eating anything and everything he can get his hands on. The commission broke that behavior very quickly though, so he’d starve himself before his rut, which would result in him getting very sick from a lack of energy and sustenance. That plus the extreme arousal was a recipe for pain and suffering.

So when you noticed he suddenly stopped eating, you insisted on making food for him, telling him that you wouldn’t let him go hungry ever. That was the first rut in years that didn’t feel like torture.

You’re cooking almost all the time, and he’s constantly eating everything you give him, running around from room to room while he waits for his next meal. He’s basically a hobbit.

In the last day or two before his rut, he suddenly has no energy, and starts getting hot and cold flashes. He’s sniffling, curled up in your shared nest, dirty tissues surrounding him. He comes in and out of consciosness, and when he’s awake, he’s whining and complaining about exhaustion and aches.

Physical Changes

Most of these happen in the last few days leading up to his rut, so it’ll be very sudden. These physical changes is what causes the extreme hunger and sickness.

His feathers darken several shades, and they become super sensitive. They also seem to grow in size, so when you cuddle, you’re smothered by them more than usual.

He also gains an extra couple inches in height, so expect some teasing now that he’s just that little bit taller. His hair also gets thicker and stronger, that’s so you can pull on it when he fucks you.

His nails get longer and darker, and they’re impossible to file or cut. So when he holds you and touches you, he often scratches you on accident. He’s really apologetic about it, but honestly you could totally paint his nails and pretend they’re acrylics if you’re into that.

His teeth get sharper, and he starts biting you just for fun. Bites your finger, hand, wrist, neck, even your nose. He underestimated just how strong his teeth are, and he made you bleed first time he bit you.

His whole body is very sensitive, so head-pats, back rubs, wings, and even his touching his feet can get him to the verge of cumming.

his tongue is longer, and it’s a whole lot stronger. He could probably carry a full plastic water bottle with his tongue (which isn’t a lot, but for a tongue it’s very much a lot).

His voice drops a whole octave and a half- mans is sounding almost like Corpse now. Maybe Markiplier? Anyways, if you’ve got a voice kink, you’re in luck

His dick changes too, it gets bigger, and he grows a lump at the base of it, between his shaft and balls. His balls get smaller until they’re barely noticable beneath what he calls him ‘knot.’

His eyes become sharper too, so don’t try and hide anything from him. 

Rut (MAJOR NSFW)

Everyone already knows Keigo has a breeding kink, but he hasn’t brought it up with you until now. It just kind of- happens. As he’s drilling into you, he suddenly starts blabbering about fucking a kid into you, and how hot you’d look all round with his kids. Might be a little weird for those of you who physically cannot give birth to children (my lovely AMABS and infertile AFABS). 

He can’t control it, so it’s especially weird if you don’t even want kids. If you can get pregnant, you’d better double check that you’re taking your birth control. And get to know some good clinics just in case.

However, if you do want kids, if you want to start a biological family woth Keigo, fuck. You will not be able to handle his happiness and horniness in that moment when you beg him to get you pregnant.

He is going to mark you up. Hickies, bruises, hand prints, bite marks, plus his scent. He needs everyone to know that you are his. He wants to claim you, make sure you know you belong to him. No one else can have you but him.

Halfway through your fuckfest, he starts making animalistic noises. He’s growling, roaring, whining, chirping, etc. This is around the time when he stops thinking about you, so he’ll really rough you up during this phase.

This man was a virgin before you, so this is also the first rut he’s ever going to have with another person, so he’ll hold himself back a lot. He needs you to reassure him at every step, tell him how good you feel, how you want him to fuck you, how not only are you okay with him going all out, you want him too.

Did he just cum? You think you’re finished? HA! No way in fucking hell is he finished after one, two, five, ten... so many rounds. He just keeps going and going and going and how the fuck is he still hard? He cums so fucking quickly, so much, and then keeps going.

When he finally does go soft, his whole personality changes. it’s like he didn’t just fuck you stupid. He immediately goes into ‘protect’ mode, which includes cuddles, him spoon-feeding you, petting you like a dog, and singing to you.

He puts the nest near a window so he can keep an eye out for possible threats. Just like “gotta keep mate safe. Is that the mailman? NO FUCK NO GET OUT OF HEREEEE!” 

One moment, he’s fucking you, and the next he’s leaning halfway out the window, screaming at some poor dude walking his dog. Remember, he’s still naked. You learned your lesson after that and kept the windows locked, and warned the neighbors to stay out of sight of the window, at least for the time being.

You’re going to feel very dirty, because he does not want you cleaning off the sweat, cum, and tears from your body. He likes that you smell like him, and you washing it off makes him feel rejected. 

He’s going to break a lot of things, so move pictures and vases into another room and lock the fuck out of that room. Or else he will break all of it.

He thinks any clothes you’re wearing are mocking him, so wear clothes you hate when his rut starts, then get used to being naked for a couple days. 

Oh yeah, his whole rut lasts one to five days. He’s fucking you for about three days on average.

He fucks you until you faint, and then keeps going until he’s out of ‘fuck’ mode and into ‘protect’ mode. A few times, he fucked you unconscious in the middle of the afternoon and then kept fucking you until the sun rose. 

Yeah, he’s got that much energy.

Don’t worry, during the whole time, he lets out pheromones with a strong vanilla-chocolaty scent that keeps your body and mind relaxed. 

There’ve been times when he’s just fucking into you and your water bottle is just out of reach.

During his rut, he has no shame. Let’s hope your walls are soundproofed, or else your neighbors will all know how he fucks you. 

He will not restrain you or hurt you in any way during his rut. So no degredation, no collars or chains, the only thing keeping you in the nest is his weight on top of you.

He gets upset if you try to touch yourself, things it’s you trying to tell him that he’s not satisfying you enough. 

He wants you to cum as many times as him, which is difficult because of his increased sensitivity, so he’s using every skill he knows to get you cumming again and again and again.

Most of the time, he’s going hard, rough, and spilling absolute filth from his cock and mouth, but in the last few hours of his rut, he suddenly gets emotional.

He’s rocking up against you, holding you close to his body and blabbering about you

How much he loves you

How good you make him feel

How he wouldn’t want anyone else by his side for his rut

How you’re his mate for life

How he’ll protect you and keep you safe.

Please be gentle with him, he’s very vulnerable near the end of his rut, and he’ll cry very easily.

When he’s nearing his last load, he makes out with you sloppily, trying to talk as he shoves his tongue down your throat.

He finishes off by  pushing his knot all the way inside you, and stays there for an hour.

This is the softest moment, and he’s covering your body in kisses. 

His knot pushes these small eggs inside you, and you have the lovely job of pushing them all out the next day. 

Post Rut

When his knot deflates, he finally pulls out and starts cleaning you off. 

He’ll carry you around and finally gives you a bath, constantly making sure you’re okay.

He’ll give you lots of massages and he’ll cook for you. He’s constantly thanking you for helping him, telling you he didn’t deserve it.

Just kiss him on the cheek, tell him you had fun, and that you love him so very very much.

He needs the most reassurance now than ever before.

He’s also very tired, so you’ll be taking care of each other.

Then his ‘post-rut’ resets, and he sleeps for hours.

Then he gets super hungry, and the two of you make huge��meals and just kinda binge eat for a day or two.

Then his physical changes go back to normal, and you have a happy lil bird boy who simps for you so hard

[lxlxthh]

pussy killer

↳ semi eita x f!reader general masterlist

genre: smut, dark content, serial killer au 18+

description: when a masked serial killer has been going around the town doing his job and the only thing you can think of is how you want him to make you feel good and doing all sort of things to you.

tw/cw: serial killer x reader, semi as ghostface, knife play, dubcon, smoking, degradation kink, death, cocky!semi, fingering, oral sex (m!receiving), overstimulation, stockholm syndrome, mirror sex, hair pulling, face reveal, use of “sweetheart”.

notes: it’s around 1.7k wc, this is the first time i write some dark content, it’s not something i usually do but i hope it turned out good, this was actually requested from my lovely @dalfoni, i hope you like it <33

tags: @hqintheclub

→ support me!

"Recently we got a picture from the assassin, called Ghostface, that has been going around Sendai killing single women between 21 and 30 years old, with all types of characteristics. The officers recommend to go home right after work or college, don't go out on weekends and refrain going to clubs." The reporter keep saying and see if there was new information.

At this point you did everything they said, going home after college and going out only to do important things like buying groceries and meanwhile at home you were searching for his social media accounts and until you found out, you saw that he only posted about his body with his mask, sometimes he was with different outfits and other times he was half naked and girl how that made you crazy.

You often print the photos he posts to hang on your wall and God knows why you did that.

Today was not different.

When you were on your last class you had received a notification in which said he had made a post. The serial killer had posted another picture of him and since you didn't want to get caught, thirsting over a killer you decided to look when you got at home.

That's what you did, you looked at the picture almost drooling and quickly rushed to print it. You bought a photo printer specifically for that.

You ate dinner and went back to your bedroom to study and not longer after the clock strikes midnight and since it was the beginning of the weekend you couldn't be more happier since you aren't going out due to the officers' recommendations. You changed into your pajamas: tank top with shorts without panties.

Looking at your wall full of the Ghostface's photos made you quick reach your boobs to start massaging them and fiddling your nipples with your index fingers. You stare at this one specific picture where he's only with boxers and his mask, that slim and long fingers you wished he could be touching every part of your body, pinching your nipples and inserting his finger in you, that's what you wanted and you're already wet just by the thought. You sneaked your fingers inside of your shorts and start playing with your clit while mumbling his fake name "Ghostface".

Meanwhile Ghostface was sitting on the edge of your bulding's rooftop smoking a cigarette. He knew who you were, you used an fake account just to download his photos and leave comments on his post. You could say he had taking a liking in you but just for your face and body. He had been thinking the many ways to kill you, would he do it slowly or faster? Gun or knife?

He smirks and exhales the smoke taken from the cigarette while he keeps staring at your beauty zooming in and out your pictures "I bet you wanna get fucked in this skimpy outfit." The picture he was seeing was the on you were wearing a short skirt with corset and boots, your boobs were almost popping our of the corset and your panties showing under the skirt. Ghostface brushes his ash blond hair with his hand and chuckling when he feels his dick getting hard. That's when he thinks it's already time to have some fun.

You make sure you don't scream his fake name for the sake of your neighbors' safety. Juices were dripping down on your inner thights as your make circled movements on your clit faster and faster. Your face is shoved in your pillow so they won't hear your moans. Those damned thin walls, you think to yourself.

Your building is a bit old, meaning there won't be cameras, Ghostface was right about that. He slowly unlocks your door with a hair pin and as expected your apartment is the type to be occupied by one person, two at max, to live. "Ahh- Ahhh-" He hears your pretty sounds and excitedly walks towards your room and sneaking in your bedroom, he leans at the door frame listening to the sinful sounds that rolled out of your tongue and right after calling his name, "Ghostface you're so hot-"

He can see your face from the mirror standing next to your desk with closed eyes, a mouth half open and drool trickling out from the corner of your mouth, he's sure that as soon as your open your eyes you will see him trying to jerk off through his pants and bingo!

You were about to scream when Ghostface shuts your mouth with his hand, your terrified expression makes him chuckle, you blink a few times before realizing who it was and your breath starts to steady and finally he speaks. "Well, well. If it isn't my number 1 fan, (Y/n) right? Promise you won't scream?" You nod rapidly. "I see you were touching yourself..." You look at the mirror showing both of you kneeled on your the bed and he looks there but at your dripping cunt and shaking thights. "You look so pretty, will you suck me while touching yourself? Will you do it for me?" You nod as you can't for words but he can clearly see the red color on your cheeks and ears, "You're probably curious about my face, I bet you want me to show you right sweetheart?"

"Ye- Yes..." You say with trembling lips still shocked, you might get killed in the end but you tried to brush off the thought. If I get killed at least I got to be fucked by him. As long as you know, you're going to be the first woman to see his face. When he takes off his mask and right after his shirt you stay in awe, he is handsome just like you imagined, you couldn't hide your emotion "Wow..." The ash blonde hair you aren't expecting and those brown eyes that could you make you melt.

"You like what your see?" You nod, "Sweetheart, how about you start doing your job?" You lower yourself as he unbuckles his belt and springs out his cock free from the tightness, leaving his pants to his knees. It wasn't thick but you're sure it's long, licking the tip and then sucking it until you could reach your throat made you earn a low grunt from him. You start slowly until you reach the right pace "Ahh... You're doing such a great job." He takes a handful of your hair, gripping it tightly and moving your head faster to the point you gag a few times. "Do you know what type of girl sucks on an assassin's cock? Uh?A slut, that's what you are. I bet you have been waiting for me for so long." You couldn't speak, the way he moves your head harshly as tears fall down from your eyes and he's right. "Shhh, don't cry sweetheart. I'm just giving you what you wanted, do you like it don't you?" You nod very fast and after a few more minutes, he shots his cum at the back of your throat not even having time to think. He lightly slaps your cheek a few times ordering you to open your mouth, "You're such a good whore for me, only for me right?"

"Yes, Ghostface." You blush so hard that makes him laugh.

"Don't call me that, call me Semi." Of course that saying his reall name would get him in trouble but who knows if you're gonna die right after you fuck? "Turn around. I think you've stretched this hole enough for me to put inside. Lower your back a bit, sweetheart. Yeah just like that" and without a warning he thrusts into you, hard and without mercy, "Look at your face, moaning just like a slut. That's the only thing you can do, being a cumslut." He's definetely having fun but ripping your pussy by adding more friction on your clit.

"Aaahhh Semi! I'm-"

"Ahhh... So warm.... I bet no man has ever done this to you." Your legs are trembling, you don't know how many times you've cummed ever since you started masturbation yourself until now. Semi lifts your upper body a bit so you can see your naked body while he's still inside of you, saying sweet and degrading things to you and takes a mirror picture hiding your face. Semi runs his hands all of your body "Will you cum for me again, sweetheart?"

"Yes."

"Then keep looking at yourself from the mirror." He starts thrusting again, harder then you thought it was possible, he grips your breats and pinches your nipples. You're trying to get balance but you have nowhere to support but on Semi's waistband.

"Oh God!"

"Forget about God, he won't help you sweetheart." He takes the change to give you hickeys and bites all over your neck, his moans are songs to your ears. "You must really love me to get dumb fucked."

"Yes, Semi I love you! I love you so so much!"

"Keep saying!" You do until he cums inside you with his dick still hard he does what was his goal: fuck you dumb until you could barely walk and speak. He fucks you in cowgirl, missionary and legs on his shoulder "Damn, I am indeed a lucky man." He speaks as his mouth is close to kiss yours, he could see you still moaning tiredly and that's when he shots his cum for the last time before you fall sleep with your body spread on your bed as both of your and his cums drip down your fucked hole. He laughs, he laughs your loud that he can take the time to think of the many ways he can kill you.

He put on his clothes again and lights up his second joint, after an hour smoking he takes the dirty sheets and shoves inside of one of your backpacks, he lifts your naked body and heads out towards his car. Driving to a forest area he burns the sheets and your backpack, he still walks for an hour and a hald to where he had dug a grave vertically so no one can find you. When your body is finally inside he takes his gun and shots on your head twice without feeling guilty or sorrow, making sure you were not alive, before finishing his job.

© LILITH 2021 - do not copy, translate, modify, or repost my work on any platform without my permission.

[burnyouwithacigarettelighter]

part i, autonomy in your coherence | c.g

With something like time that runs round with the world — ignoring it’s inhabitants and stealing things that you’d hidden away for safekeeping — you’ve taken up the hobby of art, furiously sketching faces that are six-feet under.

The skill is beautiful and horrific all the same, watching like a person with amnesia as the portraits begin to lose their depth, the freshness, the personality that came free with who you’d chosen to print on the page.

You’ve forgotten your feelings for Carl, because he didn’t feel the same.

You just wished you did a better job at it.

WARNINGS: mentions of death, suicide ideation

this is a continuation of watch you burn away and i recommend you read that, first! this is also part of a series, so here is the masterlist if you need it!

(cross-posted on ao3!)

Your father once told you he had a patient that died from heartbreak.

“Your heart can’t really break, though, right?” You’d said. A doctor for a father and a laboratory technician for a mother made you more than aware of things, seeing through the myths and pretty white lies of figures like Santa and the tooth fairy.

(They had gone through with it anyway, because although their child knew, it was a gateway to normality in such a busy home.)

Your father scratched his chin, unsure how to respond. “My patient had died from a broken heart, though the process wasn’t as simple as it’s term name. A broken heart — the nonliteral meaning — can be the cause and the domino toppling to many things that could lead to death.”

“Like what?” You’d said with little admission into the conversation, having been flicking through a novel you’d picked up a while back (which featured a one eyed pirate and his partner who’d ended up dying in the end — not that you knew, yet, at least.)

“I don’t know, er,” Your father swirled his coffee lightly, gesturing wildly with his free hand, “Mental health issues, for one. Erratic actions, depression, a lost sense of self. Obsession.”

“Huh,” You muttered, looking up at your father for the first time. “A lost sense of self? Really?”

“What is your father teaching you?” Your mother said, stepping into the kitchen with a questioning expression. The conversation ended there, without so much as a thought after.

You wish you pried your father for further answers. What you’d give to get the workaholic of a man to dump his duo psychology medical major thoughts unto you with little care.

The knowledge would be gold in your time of need, when pulling and pushing distance further between you was like venturing through a field of thorns.

(Perhaps you just missed your parents. But that couldn’t be it, right? They’d died and you had lived, their blood on your hands and the gun in your fingers, their glazed over eyes and your own that nearly matched, cold and willing without a drop of emotion.)

But you’d gotten through it for him— without him. Without anyone, quietly harboring scratches and bleeding from the field with little effort.

If someone asked, you would tell them with full and honest confidence that you harboured no more attachments. You were a naive teenager, running through your feet and over yourself for something that was just a crush.

Crushes are — in their whole singularity and purpose —  temporary.

They are brief, and momentarily something that causes ripples and waves in your thoughts, just the slightest mention or faint sight makes you detour down a road of sickly sweet dreams and fantasies.

He was first love (like? You didn’t love him, no, it was a crush and it was something for the unattainable and the inappropriate — in which with full truth, he was.) so you poured the honey glazed remembrances and rose coloured lenses over your memories, because he was a first love, and you know that those were cracks in the heart, growing vines and constricting the part that was him — the part that’d always, always be there, without a doubt.

(However much you didn’t want it to be.)

The leaves and the venomous flowers that sprout in decaying grooves come with age, and you are older now.

You bear fresh scars that litter your entire being and wear newly buried bones of people who were once not just that, the dirt still sitting in the crevices of your nails, and you seem to forget their voices with each passing day.

With something like time that runs round with the world — ignoring it’s inhabitants and stealing things that you’d hidden away for safekeeping — you’ve taken up the hobby of art, furiously sketching faces that are six-feet under.

The skill is beautiful and horrific all the same, watching like a person with amnesia as the portraits begin to lose their depth, the freshness, the personality that came free with who you’d chosen to print on the page.

More and more, the faces look like reference art rather than a taken from life picture, which was all telling them to sit still and watching their eyes crinkle at the edges when you show them the result, voices echoing and asking if they could have it.

Everyday, as it has become a peevish habit like biting your nails or obsessively reminding yourself your stove is off, you draw pictures of everyone.

If you are close enough with them, you ask the subject to sit and model for you, analyzing every breath and laugh they take when you crack a joke or engage them in meaningless conversation just to see how the light hits their brows when they raise, the shadows pooling in their aging lines.

Everyday, you wish and hope and even fucking pray that their portraits continue to be something of anxious routine, rather than trying to dump their image out of your head and onto paper so you can see their faces one more time.

His image seems to change with each moment he sits in for you, once a face with two piercing blues, then a patch and eyes that looked at the dusty wooden floor, and later, someone who looks at you straight, something that told you he was a survivor, who bore his battles proudly, the scar on the right of his face sitting ruggedly and bewitchingly.

You draw him, exactly the way you see him, and when you show him the picture, he laughs, and says “You made me look too pretty,” and you shake your head, “It’s exactly the way I see you.”

You do her, too, upon request. When she sits, you draw her almost like it was professional, drawing the curvature of her face with exact precision, intense shading, marking the features she holds. The dip in her nose, the straight of her hair.

(You often forget who you’re drawing in these moments, and when you step away from the canvas you’re hit with whiplash. It’s subconscious, the way you do these things to please him, wanting to see so clearly how his face spreads delicately with delight.)

It takes a little while for you to convince Ron. When you first propose the drawing, he gives you a confused face, before walking off to do shooting practice. He’s gotten better with the gun over the years, and doesn’t respond when you tell him you know why.

(His mother didn’t come out of it alive, and his brother didn’t come back without harm. The younger boy was alive, but would grow up with only his brother by his side and one less limb to account for.)

The second time, he makes a snide comment, albeit with no bite, about how ‘you must be a horrible artist, to ask me of all people to model for you.’

The third time, you’ve dragged him to the small office you makeshifted for the drawings in the garage. He studies every slit of paper you’ve ripped out of your book, the unfinished sketches or yet-to-be painted canvases piling up against the walls. Complete works sit proudly on your wall, displayed for the world to see.

His hands hover over the paints sitting on your desk, charcoal, dirt, sticks, paintbrushes, handmade dyes, wallpaper cut-outs.

“Why?” Ron says curiously.

“‘Why?’ what?” You echo, fiddling with a fork you grabbed from the kitchen, splaying out a thick lather combination of beet dye and cement onto your finger to check the consistency.

“Why do you draw these portraits? I get the others because,” He says, leaving the words “because they’re dead” hanging in the air between you two in mutual and regretful acknowledgement, “But you draw these everyday. You drag Carl and Enid off, or just sit on the benches and draw Maggie and Glenn knee-deep in the dirt.”

You sigh a dreadful breath, wiping the rest of the beet-cement mix onto the page with the pad of your fore-finger. “We’ll forget them one day.”

He looks at you, unblinking. The dead, the gone, and the soon to be long forgotten only existed in your memories, in your words, and when the time came that the world had moved on and stopped, they would cease. Their whole memory relied on the living, nothing about them able to reach and grasp life on their own. Memory was all that was left, and it was all you could do to wash away regret.

“And the rest?”

You bite your tongue hesitantly, your movements rigid, “You see their portraits. Everyday they get less and less coherent. When — when time comes , these drawings will be the only thing getting me by.” You whispered.

The ball had dropped. Coping and grief in it’s big and ugly form, preying on your conscious hungrily, taking shelter in your largest worries. Claws sunken in your flesh, the monster was a thing that felt like it would never go away, because it would loom right alongside death itself, watching and waiting for the moment they’d deemed someones time to have been enough.

(It would never be enough. Enough meant they’d pop in from next door and ask to borrow something, enough meant they’d swipe dirt across your face to make you angry — enough meant they would come in everyday and sit for their portrait once more.)

A creaking on the floorboard caught your attention, eyes watching as Ron’s feet walk to the corner of the room, before hopping onto the wooden seat with little effort.

“I’m not going. I never will. But — do it anyway. I’d… like to see how I look on paper.” He said cheekily, picking up a thin pencil off your desk and handing it out to you.

So you did. Seconds turned to minutes and minutes snowballed into hours in the dim lighting of the garage, asking the blond to turn his body, stretch his head and make different expressions, fulfilling and destroying the little worm of worry sitting in your head.

When you’re done with the charcoal, turning it around for Ron to see and to inspect, he asks, “What about you?”

“And what about me?” You say. His questions never make sense without further discussion, but the boy always has to wait for you to pry and ask him to elaborate.

“You don’t have any drawings of yourself. You’re the artist, the photographer, the one who makes these things that will stay longer than the memories and the words — so what about you?”

It’s rare that Ron delves into his emotions and the things he really means, but when he does, it’s something that stays, for a long while.

“I,” You didn’t have an answer for it. You weren’t one to do a self-portrait, it not being the same as having someone to sit and take from. “I don’t want to.” You finished simply, an ice cold realization coming to reality in you.

“Why?” He says the same words as before, but the words hold a heavy weight.

“I don’t know.”

You knew.

Maybe one day, you’d wished that you’d wash away like seafoam on the beach. You wouldn’t leave a single portrait behind of you, and the memories and the words were left mum behind his lips, because you knew how he got in a loss.

Quiet and unfeeling, it was so selfish of you that you’d counted on how he got in that state to leave you behind, neglecting you like the fruits of your memories you’d never get to bear.

Ron’s gaze bore into you like he knew exactly what you were thinking, telepathically taking in every thought you’d conveyed at your dispense.

“You should.” Is all he says, before stepping off the wooden stool and out the door.

What was wrong with you? You feel so… entirely foolish. Obsolete. Embarrassing.

You walked past the remnants of those who were gone everyday, obsessively creating canvas over canvas of them and the only thing you could think was that you’d wish to position yourself beside them?

This world was catching up to you, and fast, but you’d just have to run faster than it could.

[xoxo-teddybear]

Boyfriend’s Best Friend - Bakugou Katsuki

Bakugou x f!reader (ft. Kirishima)

Warnings: CRACK, Fluff, Cursing, Frisky moments

Summary: This was not how Bakugou wanted to spend his weekend. Trapped inside his best friend’s body?! Hell no. What makes it worse is that before he can tell you, you’ve already smothered Kirishima (who is in Katsuki’s body) with more than enough attention. Attention that belongs to the angry Pomeranian. And what does Kirishima think about all of this? Fuck nitroglycerin and boners.

BAKUGOU’S MASTERLIST

A/N: This shit is gonna get real confusing so KEEP UP and STAY FOCUSED

“Shit.”

After fighting off that petty thief on their way back to school, the two best friends took a look at each other after feeling a throb in their heads. But something wasn’t right. Bakugou was looking at..Bakugou and Kirishima was looking at...Kirishima???

“WHAT IS HAPPENING?!!” The red blonde headed boy asked. Kirishima made a face at his now very deep and gruff voice. He looked down and noticed his tan skin was the slightest bit paler and his clothes had changed. He turned his gaze towards the position where is best friend should be but only saw..well, himself.

“Argh, shut the hell up Shitty Hair. My head is pounding.” Bakugou said while holding onto his now red hair. He looked towards his friend to see a frantic look on his face. “Quit making me look like a bitch, Kirishima.”

“I can’t help it!! Not after what just happened!!” Kirishima said. Bakugou rolled his eyes and huffed before walking over to his friend and dragging him to a reflective window.

“We switched bodies you idiot. That damn thief must’ve hit us while we were distracted.” Bakugou took a look at his new body and cringed. Not that he thought Kirishima was ugly or anything, but he wanted to be in his own body. It just felt wrong having someone else’s dick.

“Well then we should get back to the dorms and find Mr. Aizawa. Maybe he can help.” Bakugou agreed and the boys started their journey back to the dormitory. As they walked, they took notice of a few things.

“Ugh. All these damn extras are staring at my hair.”

“My palms feel so sweaty.”

“Fuck! I keep biting my inner cheek. Stupid shark teeth.”

“Why the hell am I getting a random ass print?!”

“Nitroglycerin works like viagra Shitty Hair! Just fucking get used to it and learn how to control it!”

“I have your hair man! Does that mean you have shitty hair?”

“SHUT THE HELL UP!!”

“.....Is that..*sniff sniff*...caramel?”

“I SAID SHUT UP!”

—

“You’ll be back to normal in 2 weeks.” Aizawa bluntly said.

“2 WEEKS?!?” The boys screamed.

“Wha- HOW DO YOU KNOW?!” Bakugou screamed, trying to jump onto Aizawa with Kirishima holding him back. To anyone else, it would look like Bakugou holding Kirishima back. Oh how the tables have kinda turned.

“I know because officers have been trying to catch this thief for some time now. Even I’ve run into him on some occasions. His quirk is is called ‘Swapped.’ He takes your soul and spirit and places it in a different form...obviously. It doesn’t do much harm but it lasts for some time. Don’t worry though, you’ll be back to normal eventually.” Their teacher explained. “‘Till then, just tough it out for the next 2 weeks. Dismissed.”

The boys groaned and walked back to the common room floor. They walked in to find a few other classmates who thankfully didn’t seem too suspicious of anything. The boys went their separate ways, going to their own dorms to soothe their still aching heads.

—

Kirishima was the first to come out of his room. After contemplating whether he should take a shower or not, he chose the latter. He could survive the rest of the day without one, he’ll just worry about bathing later. Besides, he doesn’t mind smelling like a sweet treat for the next few hours and you know…not having to see and wash his best friend’s body and dick.

He walked down into the kitchen to find it empty. He was glad he wouldn’t have to explain his situation to anyone. If anyone saw Bakugou acting like the sweet bean that Kirishima is then I’m pretty sure a lot of people would have questions.

Looking around, he saw a batch of brownies left on a tray. He couldn’t help himself and went in to grab one. Unfortunately, he wasn’t aware of how chewy they were and after taking a few chomps, he realized the treat was as tough as glue. He couldn’t even open his mouth! And just to his luck, Bakugou’s girlfriend had walked in, seemingly back from her training session.

“Hi baby.” Y/N said. She went up to who she thought was her boyfriend and gave him a hug along with a peck on his cheek. “How was your day?”

Kirishima grew nervous. He didn’t know how to handle this situation. He would totally tell Y/N that it was actually him in her boyfriend’s body but the brownie sealed his mouth shut! He resorted to going with the flow and just nodding with a nervous smile. A very Bakugou smile.

“Tiring?” Y/N asked. Kirishima nodded his head. “Umm..okay. Well, same for me, but I still have enough energy for movie night, so I’ll see you in the common room. ‘Kay?”

Again, the now blonde nodded his head again. You smiled at him and went in to give him another hug. To your shock, you felt something poking you when you gave your boyfriend a hug. You looked down and noticed a pretty impressive print through his sweats and smirked. You looked up to your “boyfriend” and gave him a sly look. “You sure you’re tired Suki? Cuz your friend down here says you’re down for something else.”

Kirishima began to shake due to his nervousness now. He couldn’t help the damn boner! One, nitroglycerin is apparently 12x stronger than viagra, and two! He can’t relieve himself! Looking at and touching his best friend’s dick was wrong! And weird! Even if it was attached to him now!

What Kirishima wasn’t prepared for was you being so willing to help relieve his stiffy. On the bright side, he’d relive his hard on. On the not so bright side, he’d be fucking his best bro’s girl. Big no no. He definitely wasn’t prepared for your hand to travel down his torso and grab onto his Bakugou’s dick. “You still tired Suki?”

Kirishima couldn’t help himself. It felt too good to stop. He threw his head back and enjoyed the stimulation, even though he knew it was wrong. All he knew was that if he let this whole thing play through, he wouldn’t have to worry about walking around with a huge ass boner. A blush grew on his face as he moaned. He felt you peck at his neck a bit before stopping all your motions. The now blonde looked towards you in confusion and saw your laughter.

“Hehe, sorry Suki. Save it for later tonight, okay? I’ve gotta freshen up but I’ll see you later, Love.” You said before giving him a sweet peck and walking away. Once you were out of sight, Kirishima fanned his face to try and get rid of his blush. He then quickly ran to the fridge and chugged a few gulps of milk down to wash away the brownie.

“Fuck.” Was all that he said. Did that really just happen? Shit. Should he have let that happen? At this point he didn’t know. The man in him said HELL NO, but the nitroglycerin said otherwise. All Kirishima knew was that apparently he had a movie date to get to.

—

So now here we are, Y/N and Kirishima (in Bakugou’s body) all cuddled up on one of the common room couches during the late hours of the night, watching a movie. Kirishima thought Y/N looked really tempting in her booty shorts and tube top. The way her plush chest pressed up against his own as she watched the screen with a smile wasn’t aiding Kirishima’s mission to relieve his hard on.

Throughout the whole movie, Kirishima watched from time to time how Y/N would rub her legs together. It seemed she was growing some urges as well. Kirishima couldn’t shake his nerves..like...AT ALL.

Finally. It was almost the end of the movie. Kirishima had almost made it. All he had to do was finish the last 10 minutes and he could go..well honestly he didn’t know yet but he’ll figure it out later! Unfortunately, the universe had different plans. Kirishima watched as Y/N sat up to grab the remote and turn off the T.V. She placed the object down on the table and faced who she assumed to be her boyfriend. She wrapped her arms around his neck and went to straddle his groin.

“Uh-..Y/N?” Kirishima asked with a shaky voice as he gulped down a nerve. You smirked at him and leaned down to leave kisses all over his neck. Kirishima shook a bit and let out a shudder at your soft lips.

“Relax Suki. We won’t get caught. ‘Sides, when have you ever been afraid to fuck in public?” You said. You then went up to start off your session with a hot kiss to “Katsuki’s” lips. Kirishima had wide eyes as you took in his lips, but eventually, your sweet taste and bouncy lips made him succumb to your wishes.

He placed his hands on your waist as he kissed you back. When he opened his mouth you slid your tongue in as your hands entangled themselves in his hair. The kiss was fiery and passionate and eventually you and “Katsuki” both began to moan into the kiss. His hands traveled to your ass and gave in a firm grip which made you release a loud moan. Things were definitely heating up now.

—

When Katsuki came back to the dorms, he had already been exhausted by the entire situation. The only thing on his mind was getting some rest to ware off the headache, hours had passed and he eventually woke up in the middle of the night.

“Shit, how long have I been out?” He stretched and yawned a bit before he got up. The mirror hanging on his wall reminded him of his new body. “Oh, right. I’m in Shitty Hair’s body......gross.”

Bakugou felt his mouth become dry and so he planned to get a glass of water from the kitchen. As he walked down the halls, he couldn’t help but think about you. His precious girl. The love of his life who’s been with him since childhood and who he’s been dating since their second year in junior high. You were with him through it all and he couldn’t help but feel a little bad that he had to miss movie night.

‘Fuck, did I even tell Y/N I wouldn’t make it to movie night? Crap,’ he thought. Oh well, he’d just have to make up for it later. As he walked near the common rooms, his ears picked up a sound. And not just any sound, it was a moan. And he knew exactly who’s moan it was, for he had been the cause of those exact sounds and he’s heard them time and time again.

Bakugou ran to the common rooms to find his girlfriend and his body making out and slowly grinding on each other on the couch. He watched “his” hands travel to grope Y/N’s ass and bit his lip when he heard his girlfriend’s pleasured moans. He wasn’t gonna lie, the scene before him had turned him on, but what became a huge turnoff was the fact that Bakugou knew it wasn’t him in there and he knew exactly who was in his damn body!

“THE HELL?!” Bakugou screamed in Kirishima’s voice. He watched the two of you jump away from each other in shock and saw a look of fear flow through Kirishima’s his own eyes.

“Jeez, Kirishima. You scared us.” You said to your actual boyfriend without knowing it. Bakugou fumed at the fact that you were just making out and were probably about to fuck his best friend but he couldn’t blame you. You called him Kirishima so you must’ve not known about the switch.

“Can I talk to Bakugou real quick, L/N?” Bleh. Calling someone else by his name was weird and calling you by your family name was very uncomfortable.

“Umm..we’re kinda in the middle of something so maybe if you could jus-“

“Thanks.” He said and dragged “Bakugou” away behind a hallway corner. He pinned his body up against the wall and got in Kirishima’s face as he held the man by his collar. “WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING KISSING MY GIRLFRIEND?!”

“IM SORRY! I DIDN’T MEAN TO! SHE CAME ONTO ME!” Kirishima explained while being held against the wall.

“NO SHIT SHE CAME ONTO YOU! YOU’RE IN MY BODY! YOU’RE ME! I’M HER BOYFRIEND! SHE THOUGHT YOU WERE ME SHITTY HAIR!” Bakugou screamed. Kirishima just laughed nervously as Bakugou continued to fume. After venting, Bakugou finally dropped Kirishima back on his feet and pressed the bridge of his nose with 2 fingers. “Okay. Why THE FUCK did you not tell her about the quirk?”

“Because man! .....Your quirk has built in viagra!” Kirishima said in defeat as he threw his hands in the air due to the pent up frustration. “I’ve had a fucking stiffy ever since I got put in your body! So I thought-“

“You thought you could relieve yourself with my girl?!” Bakugou asked with big, angry eyes.

“.....Yes?”

“KIRISHIMA!”

“ALRIGHT!” Kirishima sighed. “Well what now?”

“We go out there and explain to her what happened so you don’t end up fucking her!” Bakugou explained as he tried to walk back to you but Kirishima pulled him back.

“Okay but what about my fucking boner?” The pent up boy asked.

“Just rub it out!” Bakugou exclaimed.

“No way! I’m not touching your dick!” Kirishima rebelled.

“Why not? I’m clean. And big! Just saying, I got a pretty dick dude.” Bakugou said with both hands up in defense.

“BAKUGOU!”

“Yeah, fair.” The ex blonde said. The boys thought about it for a bit before something hit Kirishima like a train.

“Wait..if you’re so okay with me seeing your dick..does that mean..you took a look at mine?!” He asked while shaking Bakugou’s his shoulders.

“What?! Gross! No! I was napping all day Shitty Hair so relax! And get your damn hands offa’ me!” Bakugou said while squirming out of Kirishima’s hold.

“Alright, fine whatever! Let’s just go out and explain to L/N.” Kirishima said.

“Good!”

“Good!”

“Goooooodd!” Bakugou said more dramatically. The two boys finally made it back to you and instead of your boyfriend’s body taking a seat next to you, it remained standing. Meanwhile, “Kirishima” took the seat “Katsuki” previously had. You looked towards the red head and then to your boyfriend in a confused tilt.

“Suki? Are you gonna sit?” You asked to “Bakugou.”

“I am.” “Kirishima” replied. You looked towards the muscular boy sitting next to you with a raised brow.

“What?” You questioned.

“Listen, L/N, we got something to tell you.” The actual Kirishima said. You looked to your “boyfriend” with almost a hurt look on your face as to why he was calling you by your family name. The real Bakugou took notice of your sad voice and softened his eyes at your now upset demeanor. “I’m actually Kirishima...”

Your face grew in surprise and then silence hit the room. The boys gazed your looks for a reaction but got nothing other than pure shock. You couldn’t even say anything other than “Eh?!”

“Yeaahhhh..I’m your actual boyfriend.” The red head said. You looked to Kirishima and inspected him closer.

“Uh..Suki?” You said while zooming in of his face.

“Tch. It’s me Teddy Bear, relax,” Bakugou said while looked away with a blushed face as he pushed your face away. You grumbled at his push and took his hand off.

“Yup. That’s you.” You said, relaxing. “So...you’re Katsuki..and you’re Kirishima?”

You watched the boys nod their heads and you were settling down until another thought came to mind. “Wait..so I was-..on the couch-...I thought-...”

“Yeah, you were making out with Shitty Hair but in my body..” Bakugou said with a hand behind his neck. Your face jumped in shock once more until it was replaced with anger. You watched as Kirishima’s new face became nervous and gave a shaky chuckle.

“Kirishima...” you seethed with slanted eyes before you attempted to jump onto the new blonde. Mid-jump, Bakugou grabbed onto your waist and pulled you back onto his lap. You fought against Katsuki’s hold on you but alas he was too strong.

“Nope! No, settle, settle.” Bakugou said with an iron grip on your waist. You finally calmed down until you took notice you were sitting in BASICALLY Kirishima’s lap. Feeling uncomfortable you scooted off your boyfriend and sat next to him. Bakugou looked at you with a confused expression that demanded an explanation.

“Heh..sorry um, Suki. But I’m not sitting on you or doing...anything else that’s lovey dovey until you’re back to your own body.” You explained.

“Wha- that’s not fair! You were all over here grinding on him just a few minutes ago!” Bakugou whined and pointed at his body.

“Because I didn’t know it wasn’t you!” Bakugou just grumbled and groaned at you. Your reasoning was fair but he just wanted his girlfriend.

“Okay, whatever. Be pouty. Just- When is this quirk gonna wear off?” You asked. Bakugou continued to pout with crossed arms but luckily Kirishima answered.

“2 weeks.” He said.

“Alright then!” You said while clapping your hands and standing up, gathering Katsuki’s attention. “For the next 2 weeks or until you go back to normal, Suki, no touching, no kisses, no overly-friendly hugs, no cuddles, no lap-sitting....”

Bakugou listened to you list all the things he couldn’t do. As you went on, his jaw dropped as he realized he wouldn’t be able to do all the things he usually does to you for the next 2 weeks. The list went on and on until you finished it with one final detail. “...and finally. No sex.”

“WHAT?!” Bakugou said while standing up now. “WHY?!”

“Katsuki. I’m not fucking my boyfriend’s best friend’s body. No offense Kiri,” you said to the other boy.

“None taken!” He said with his winning smile. Just less shark-toothy. Bakugou just mumbled about until you cut him off.

“Anyways! I’m going to bed. After this long and frankly awkward day, I think we all should.” You said and the boys agreed. You all walked to your respected dorms but when Bakugou tried following you into your dorm while he was still in Kirishima’s body, you stopped him with a hand on his chest.

“Uh, sorry Suki. You’ll be sleeping in your own dorm for the next 2 weeks. No sleeping together either.” You watched as Bakugou became much more agitated as he huffed. He grumbled as he reluctantly walked all the way to his own dorm room. You giggled as you watched the now red head walk away and shut your door. You couldn’t help but laugh as you laid down on your bed but 10 minutes passed and before you could fall asleep, a knock was at your door.

“Suki, I said we can’t sleep on my bed together.” You said once you opened the door, finding Kirishima’s body holding a pillow and blanket.

“I know it’s just- *sigh* look, if I can’t cuddle with you can I at least sleep on the ground and hold your hand?” He said, looking away with an embarrassed blush. “I know you said hand-holding isn’t allowed but you won’t be seeing me since I’ll be out of your sight and on the ground.”

You smiled at how clingy he was being. It was adorable and you just had to give in. “Fine, come in.”

Katsuki perked up with a small smile and happily followed you into the room. You got comfy on the bed while he set up his little pillow and blanket. You finally dropped your hand down so he could hold onto it and his warm hand held a strong grip on your own.

So now here you were, late at night, “cuddling” with your boyfriend. In a way. You smiled as you held onto his hand and couldn’t help but giggle when you felt his lips place a sweet kiss to your knuckles. Oh well, I guess there was nothing wrong with holding hands with your boyfriend’s best friend. As long as it’s your boyfriend who’s in his best friend’s body.

You couldn’t believe this was gonna be your life for the next 2 weeks.

Tag list: @sxcker4you @aomi04