#paying layer sounds great in theory

[struungout]

My Haru Casting E-minor is officially ordered and I am hundreds of dollars poorer lmao. I played the “pay later” game a few too many times this year and I ain’t doing that again so Sachi got paid in full bahaha.

[transmandrake]

Concept that will never ever happen but man, 3d renders for a petsite with dress-up ala neopets or flight rising would be a great like, time-saving strategy. Like it is mindboggling the amount of effort that goes into a single item in FR... but 3d would make the possibility of fully dress-upable pet sites way more viable (i mean. Im sure theres more but I can only think of those two. And thats fair! Flight rising is petsites georg in terms of, whatd you call it, production level)

Like, instead of redrawing a hat 30 times, model it once, and then slap it on with minor adjustments for them all, and theoretically once you have a system of what fits what, adding on another beastie wont keep exponentially increasing the work of adding new clothes.

Then, render the creature and the clothes as spearate images, and have the site layer them as appropriate and compress into a final single image. That would mean no shadows and stuff, but thats already something you cant really do in 2d, but it would be a lot more noticeable.

Also wayyyy wayyy easier to do multiple poses.

That's also making me imagine the possibility of animated petsites... prerendered probably but man, imagine like, pokemon amie but on your computer or phone with your lil dressupable creatures. As much as I hold petsites dear to my heart, I do think they're on their last limb simply because most people don't go on their computer to goof around. Like technically you can play FR on your phone but its just not the same. (Side note but um. Anybody want a nature/water sprite? I feel a lil bad theyre rotting on my account considering they must be pretty rare at this point)

The idea of a petsite as an app causes me some form of revulsion, but I'm not sure why. If anything thats what I always wanted as a kid, but most games like that are... well. Shit. But I'm also not 12 anymore so maybe 'mobile games where you have some dudes to take care of' has expanded as a genre.

But in theory it would be cool. In general I think petsites came up with a lot of fun ways to interact digitally that arent anywhere else, that would make some unique videogames.

Went on tangent below lol

Also same with those dragon breeding mobile games that you really shouldnt play but are a guilty pleasure of mine... I'd love to make a whole game based around completing a compendium of dragons by collecting different ones and combining them.

As much as I hate to say it though they fundamentally revolve around waiting a lot of time between attempts, that I cant think of a way to keep the excitement of getting something different without being the shitty mobile game style ohhh you can wait 4 hours... orrr pay usss... like, just removing the paying would just make the game annoying.

they are genuinely fun if you have no money and are resistant to addiction... which is sad, I wish I could translate the gameplay loop in an equally fun but non-exploitative way.

But i guess animal crossing does real time stuff and people love it, but it also doesnt seem the sort of idea to make a good chill out game... the only way i can think of is to just make it so on average by the time you come back from playing the 'find more dargons' part of the game, that your combinings should be ready. But making that into a factory sort of advancement would be... kinda fucked up lmao.

You obviously want to make the dragons feel like pets or companions and not breeding stock. But also the angle of 'you are a dragon conservationist and you must convince as many dragons as possible to Fuck' sounds kinda funny... like how in FR obliterating dragons for money is well-rationaled as sending them off to serve their deity, but in reverse.

[scuttling]

(Not So) Casual Friday

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairings: Aaron Hotchner/Female Reader Word Count: 4,456 Tags: 18+, NSFW, Dad Bod Hotch (it's not a main component but he very much has the tummy here), Pining, Accidentally admitting attraction, Embarrassment, A little angst, Oral sex, Protected sex Summary: Your best friend Derek finds out about your feelings for Hotch and teases you mercilessly. You can manage it, though, until the first ever Casual Friday, when Hotch shows up to work in a black polo and jeans and you kind of ruin everything. Or maybe you don't? *Requested by anon Link to A03 or read below! “Okay, girlie, today’s the day,” Derek says when you set your bag and coffee cup on your desk on Monday morning. You shoot your best friend a tired smile and wonder for the—you’ve worked at the BAU for almost two years, so it’s probably the 500th time—for the 500th time why he has to be such a morning person when you would prefer not to have a conversation until at least 10 AM.

“Today’s the day for what?” you sigh, asking out of obligation, because it’s obvious that’s what he’s waiting for; he smiles, picks up your coffee and hands it to you, which must mean you sound bitchy. You take a grateful sip, close your eyes and exhale through your nose.

“For you to admit to me that you’re in love with Hotch.”

You spit out your coffee—only all over yourself, which is great, wouldn’t want to inconvenience Derek at all—and then cough so hard he has to thump on your back to help clear your airway.

It draws some attention; Hotch comes out of his office, takes a look at the two of you and probably regrets hiring the both of you, then walks down the stairs to make sure you’re okay.

“What happened? You’re wet,” he says a bit gruffly, looking at the coffee all over your chest and sleeves. You glare over at Derek, who’s clearly trying not to laugh.

“Derek made me spill my coffee.” You grab a handful of tissues off your desk and pat at the wet spot, trying to soak up the worst of it, but it’s not salvageable. You’ll have to change your shirt.

“And then you… choked on it?” Hotch asks, to clarify. Derek does laugh at that; the things Hotch is saying happen to have dual meanings, slightly sexual, and now that Derek knows—thinks he knows—about your thing for Hotch, it’s clear he finds it all so hilarious. He’s a twelve year old boy in a grown man’s body.

“Okay, I didn’t spill, I spit,” you correct, looking up at them, and Derek makes an exaggerated face of disapproval.

“Should have swallowed,” he says, trying to sound serious, and you shoot him an irritated look and reach out to slap him in the chest. Asshole.

“Do you need help getting cleaned up?” Hotch’s expression is kind, sweet, but you’d sooner die than have him blot coffee off of your boobs. It would be mortifying, especially in front of Derek.

“No, no, I think I’m okay. Thanks,” you add with a soft smile, and then you reach up and pull your sweater over your head, unzip your go bag, and search for another top.

For some reason, Hotch has a coughing fit scarily similar to the one you just had, and you turn to pat his back like Derek did for you.

“Are you alright?” you ask, looking up into his face, and he nods despite his watering eyes.

“Fine,” he croaks, and he leaves as quickly as he came. You sigh, because it’s not even nine and your day has already been so weird.

You’re wearing a tank top, and thankfully the coffee didn’t get through to that layer, so it’s quick and easy to throw another lightweight sweater over top of it; you ball up the wet one, shove it in the dirty clothes portion of your bag, zip it up and stash it under your desk. Derek looks like he’s having the best day of his life.

“You realize you just undressed in front of Hotch,” he says with a tone you don’t appreciate. You roll your eyes.

“I did not. I had a tank top on underneath.” You almost always wear an undershirt, because you’ve been a cop long enough to know that sometimes your clothes get torn or messed up in the line of duty, and you’re not trying to offer a free show while taking down an unsub. Derek wiggles his eyebrows, points at your chest.

“Yeah, one that put those little boobies on display. His eyes bulged out of his head like a cartoon character.” This time, you punch him in the arm, hard. It’s too goddamn early for this.

“Can you please shut up already? I don’t have a thing for Hotch.”

“Ah, I didn’t say you had a thing, I said you’re in love with him. And I have evidence; lots of it.” You tip your head back, groan, wondering what you did to deserve a best friend who is also such a pain in the ass, and it’s that moment that Hotch chooses to rejoin you; he looks a little flushed, probably from the coughing earlier.

“Uh. We have a case; I know not everyone is here yet, but you can head up to the briefing room, I’ll grab the others when they arrive.”

“Sure thing, sir,” you say easily, grabbing your tablet and what’s left of your coffee; you gesture for Derek and he follows, laughing and shaking his head. “Okay, what is it now? I’m so glad you find me entertaining today.”

“‘Sure thing, sir,’” he says with a high, breathy voice you assume is supposed to mimic yours. “You want his dick so bad.” You narrow your eyes at him as you head upstairs.

“Uh, because I was being respectful? I know that’s a foreign concept for you, the world’s biggest asshole, but you don’t have to read anything into it.” You take your usual seats at the table, pull up the note-taking app on your tablet, and Derek sits back, crosses his arms behind his head.

“Well you’re not calling me ‘sir’, and I’m the sexiest piece in the office, so it’s hard not to read into it.” You look over at him, elbow on the table, chin in the palm of your hand.

“Sexy is subjective, and you don’t do it for me, sorry to break it to you.” He scoffs, laughs, and you laugh too because you both know you see each other as brother and sister, buddies, and fellow former cops, and absolutely nothing else.

“Yeah, I get it, only Hotch does it for you; he’s not my type, but I can see how a young lady like yourself could be drawn to his brooding exterior.”

“I’m not drawn to his exterior!” you practically growl, and then you’re joined by Spencer and JJ.

“Good morning. What’s going on with you two?” JJ asks, loading up the monitors for the debriefing, her eyebrows raised.

“She’s in love with Hotch,” Derek says completely nonchalantly, and you rest your head on the table, on top of your forearms, and sigh.

“She’s what?” JJ’s whole face lights up, and you seriously regret everything.

“I’m not in love with anybody!” you mumble against your arms, and then you sit up, because you’re clearly going to have to defend yourself. “And I’d appreciate it if you quit saying that I am.”

“I told you I have evidence,” Derek reminds you, leaning back in his chair a little. One swift kick would have him toppling ass over tea kettle, but you’re too nice, even when he’s actively trying to ruin your life. “Shall I go over it while we wait?”

“I’ll be an objective third party,” Spencer says with a brief smile, and you sigh, wave your hand toward Derek.

“Alright, let’s hear it. I’m sure I have a perfectly reasonable explanation for whatever evidence you might think you have.” He grins like this is the moment he’s been waiting for, and you feel a little stupid for encouraging this.

“For one, you always look at him. When I’m delivering a profile, I notice you watching the locals, making sure they understand what we’re going over, since you're the queen of analyzing the micro expressions. But when Hotch is delivering a profile, your eyes are on him the whole time. Same goes for discussing theories on the jet; anyone else, and you’ve got your face in your tablet, scribbling notes, but you always look at him when he speaks.”

Your cheeks get hot. He’s a captivating speaker, is all, with that deep, velvety voice, and you can learn a lot from him, so you pay attention. That’s just being smart.

“Second, you tense when he gets close to you: not like you don’t want him to touch you, but like you’re halfway to jumping him already and trying to control it. I could probably put my hand in your pocket and you wouldn't even flinch, but if he leans over you to point at something you look like you’re about to cream your pants.”

“I have seen that, actually,” JJ offers, and you look over at her, betrayed. Sure, you get a whiff of his clean, crisp cologne, or feel the heat of him at your back, and your body reacts, reminds you that this is your boss and you’re at work and you can’t get turned on by the way he smells, but that’s actually a good thing, not an indicator of feelings or anything.

“Third, there’s something up with you and the gray suits. I can literally tell that he’s wearing one before I even see him, all because of the look on your face. It’s like you’re drunk on the gray suit.”

“Okay, that’s not true,” you say with a roll of your eyes—the gray suits are god tier, but there’s no way you’re that obvious—but it’s Spencer who speaks up, this time.

“You know, I have noticed that. Your pupils tend to be more dilated when his suit is gray or blue than when it’s black.” Fuck. You sigh.

“He barely ever wears the blue. It looks so good on him,” you murmur, and then you snap your eyes shut, cover your face with your hands. “Fuck. This is so embarrassing.”

“To be fair, we are profilers,” Derek says, leaning in to pat your back. “But also to be fair, he’s been a profiler longer than any of us, so if we know, he definitely knows.”

“Not helping, Derek,” you grind out, and then you’re joined by the rest of the team. Penelope takes the seat next to you, leans in with a worried tone of voice.

“Is everything okay?”

“She’s having a small crisis, but she’ll be fine,” JJ says with a smile, and you don’t miss the way Hotch looks you over when she says it, concern in his eyes. “Alright, so we’re headed to Arkansas…”

Later that morning, when you’ve been given your instructions—yours are heading to the crime scene with Emily and Derek—Hotch pulls you out into the hall, rests a gentle hand on your arm.

“Are you alright? JJ mentioned you were having a crisis earlier. This is the first time I’ve been able to get you alone, and I wanted to check on you.” You take a deep breath, look up at him, so handsome in a black suit, white shirt, green tie—he almost never wears a green tie, and you absently think it brings out the more golden tones of his eyes—and smile softly.

“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s really nothing. Personal stuff, and I’m dealing with it.” If by ‘dealing with it’ you mean you’ve been repressing it, shoving it down day in and day out until your feelings are choking you, then yeah, you’re dealing with it. “Thanks for checking, though, that’s kind of you.”

“Of course. I’m here to help in any way I can, if you need me.” Good god, do you need him, emotionally, physically, but that’s fantasy, and this, what he’s offering, is rooted in reality. Good things do happen, but not to you.

“Thanks.” Your voice is weak to your own ears, and he swallows, nods; you see Derek hovering by the door, waiting for you, and you pull away to join him, plastering a smile on your face. You don’t talk about it again until Friday, and at that point it’s extremely unavoidable.

It’s Casual Friday, newly implemented by the bureau as a way to boost morale, and while it doesn’t really excite you, because you’re fairly casual anyway, others take full advantage of it. Others, including Hotch.

He shows up to work wearing a black polo and dark jeans, his usual watch. It’s easily the most simplistic, basic outfit a man could decide to wear on Casual Friday, but this isn’t just a man, it’s Aaron fucking Hotchner, and so naturally, you lose your damn mind.

It wouldn’t be so bad if the damn polo didn’t fit him perfectly, tight across his shoulders and chest and the little tummy he has that makes you want to be under him so badly, your stomachs pressed together while he thrusts inside you, holding you tightly, his strong thighs working against yours…

“Hello, are you alive in there?” Emily asks, waving her hand in front of your face; the two of you, along with Derek, are in Penelope’s office for lunch while Rossi, Reid, and JJ are out of the office for a seminar. You blink, shake away your thoughts and hope and pray they don’t come back—but they’ll come back, they always do.

“She’s just short circuiting because of Hotch’s Casual Friday look,” Morgan says with a wink, sitting backward in his seat. “She’s been drooling so much I’ve had to follow her around with a mop to clean up after her.” You push your wheeled chair away from them with a groan, needing space and air and, potentially, a brain transplant. You’ve gotten nothing done all day long.

“Can you blame me? The man comes in here everyday, buttoned up tight, looking incredible in a suit and tie, and then he shows up in that black polo, all snug and hot and delicious, and you expect me not to freak out? You guys are lucky I didn’t pass out.” You’re met with silence, and you blink, confused, at your friends, but they’re all just kind of staring with looks of barely concealed humor. “What? It’s not like it’s a secret that I want to climb him like a tree.”

“Pretty sure it was a secret to him,” Penelope says, looking shocked, and you whip around in your chair to see Hotch standing in the doorway, wide-eyed and a little flushed.

“Oh my god. I’m so sorry. I, uh—” He raises a hand, waves you off.

“It’s okay. No harm done; thank you, for the, uh. Compliment.” He steps forward, hands a manila folder to Penelope. “Thanks for taking care of these,” he says softly, and then, unsurprisingly, he gets the hell out of there. You wish you could disappear off the face of the Earth.

“Fuck, holy fuck,” you mutter when he’s gone, leaning forward with your head in your hands. “That’s it, I’m quitting. It’s been nice knowing you guys.”

“Okay, don’t be dramatic,” Derek says, and you look up to glare at him; he’s the one that started all this in the first place. You were fine, feelings tamped down and suppressed, until he brought it up and then told everyone you know.

“Don’t tell me not to be dramatic, Derek! This is all your fault. You never respect my boundaries, you never know when to just let me be, you always have to pick and pick until you wear me down. Maybe I had a reason for wanting to keep my feelings private, did you ever think of that?”

“I know you're upset,” Emily begins softly, because there’s some pretty thick tension between you and Derek now, but you stand up, push your chair across the room, and shake your head.

“I’m not upset, I’m fucking humiliated. I’m going home; let him know I’m sick, will you?” You exhale deeply, storm upstairs and grab your stuff and drive home with tears in your eyes. You’ve never been so embarrassed in your life, and add that to the absolute heartbreak you’re feeling? You’re just happy you make it to your apartment, so you can break down with cheesecake and a sappy, romantic comedy with a happy ending: those perfect, fictional worlds are pretty much the only place one is guaranteed. You are, as planned, hunkered down on the sofa in your softest pajamas, watching You’ve Got Mail and eating the center out of an entire cheesecake with a spoon when there’s a knock at your door. You groan, pick up your cheesecake tin, and walk over to it, fully expecting it to be Derek come to beg for forgiveness for ruining your life, so it’s no surprise you drop your dessert on the floor when it’s actually Hotch on the other side.

He looks down at the tin, then up at your face, cracks the barest hint of a smile.

“I thought you were sick; I brought soup,” he says, holding up a paper bag, and your heart thumps in your chest. You wipe a hand over your face, because you haven’t been exactly neat in your heartache cheesecake consumption, and then you kick the tin across the floor and invite him in, closing the door behind him.

“I thought it was obvious that I wasn’t actually sick, just… really embarrassed,” you say when he turns back to look at you. “I can’t believe you heard all that stuff I said… I’m really sorry I made you uncomfortable.” You take the bag from his hand and invite him to follow you into the kitchen, where you set it on the counter, lean against it. He comes close, but not so close you can’t function, which is good; your comfy pajamas are shorts and a loose tank top, so you feel a little exposed already.

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” he says softly, and you frown, must have heard him wrong. He presses his fingertips against the counter, as if for support. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable. It was… unexpected,” he explains, “very unexpected, but I’m not uncomfortable.”

You flush hot, and you can feel the bad decision part of your brain switching on, warning bells ringing in your head.

Whatever you do next has the potential to be extremely stupid, and you would like to avoid that at all costs; you love your job, after all, despite how physically and emotionally exhausting it can be, and you love your team. Time to think with your upstairs brain only.

“That makes me feel a little better,” you say truthfully, and despite the pep talk you just gave yourself, you move closer to him like there’s an invisible magnetic force between you; you would imagine a guy like Hotch would step back, keep his distance, but he only cranes his neck a little so he can look down at you more easily.

God, he’s tall. And he smells good, and his face is perfect, and that goddamn polo...

“Good, I’m glad. I don’t want you to feel bad about this. I’m not uncomfortable, it’s not… it’s not unwanted.” You swallow audibly, looking up at him, wondering if he knows what he’s saying, what it sounds like.

“It’s not?” you ask, and it comes out breathy; he takes a small step closer to you, brushes his fingers over your arm, peers into your eyes.

“No, it’s not. I’ve been thinking of you, too; I know you know you’re beautiful, but you’re also so smart, and strong-willed, and a force to be reckoned with. I’m proud to have you on my team, and I’d be proud… to have you climb me like a tree.” He smiles again, just the barest hint of one, and you put your arms around him and pull him closer for a kiss.

One long, slow, perfect kiss turns into another, then another, and he presses your back against the counter, his hands on your face and your hands on his thick waist; you hum into the kiss, revel in the feel of his lips on yours, his tongue sweeping past them, and when you pull back for air it feels like there’s only one question that needs to be asked.

“Bedroom?” you breathe, and he nods, and you take his hand and pull him in that direction, pausing to kiss him several times before you get there. “You don’t happen to have a condom, do you?” you ask, breathless, guiding him to the bed, and he frowns, shakes his head.

“I didn’t want to seem presumptuous.” You grin at that, lean forward and kiss him, your fingers in his hair.

“I find it so hot that you even say presumptuous. I might have one here somewhere.” You open your nightstand, move around books and toys until you find a couple; you flip them over, checking to see if they’re expired, and offer him a couple options. “They’re still good, surprisingly. You can, uh. Choose the one that would work best.”

He looks them over, picks one and hands back the rest, and you throw them back in the drawer and slide into his lap, wrap your arms around his shoulders.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he says, holding your waist as you look down at him, completely in awe that this is happening. “But I want to clarify: if you’re looking for something casual, I don’t think we should go any further.” You inhale softly, surprised by his straightforwardness, and you lean in, kiss him slowly.

“I don’t want casual. I want to be with you.” His eyes are so brilliant, dark in the dim light of your bedroom, and he nods, presses his lips to yours and slides his hands beneath your top, guides it over your head. Then they move to your shorts, slipping them gently off your hips, and you stand so he can push them to the ground.

You’re both breathing heavily, a little rough, and you step between his legs, kiss him again, run your hands down his chest, closing your eyes with a sigh because you finally get to feel him after a year of just imagining what it would be like. After a beat, you open your eyes, look into his, smile.

“Really grateful for Casual Friday,” you whisper. “Otherwise you might never have found out I’m kind of in love with you.” You ease the polo over his head, drop it on the ground and encourage him to stand so you can take off his pants; he does, but before you can drop to your knees as planned, he takes your face in his hands, presses one soft kiss against your mouth.

“I’m more than kind of in love with you.” Oh, if that isn’t the greatest sentence your ears have ever heard… You wrap your arms around his neck, kiss a little more, forgetting that you planned to finish undressing him; when you remember, you make quick work of it, then have him lay back against the bed and settle between his legs.

You put your mouth on him because you want to, more than anything, and his hand drops to your hair, caressing you while you suck slowly, deeply, holding him with one hand and pressing against his stomach with the other. His moans are soft and gorgeous, his body tense beneath your hand, and you’d do this all night, but he murmurs your name, coaxes you up, puts his hands on your back as you settle against him.

“You’re so incredible. I never would have imagined I’d get this, get you,” he breathes, skimming his hands over your sides and hips, and you kiss softly, steamy and sweet.

“Me neither.” You lean up, make space for him to roll on the condom, and then press him inside; your breath hitches, and so does his, and you lay on top of him, chest to chest, stomach to stomach, arms around each other tightly while you move. “Hmm. Aaron,” you sigh, hair falling around him, and he groans, digs his fingertips into your hips.

“Sounds so perfect coming out of your mouth.” You smile, but it slips away when he surges up to kiss you, leans up so he’s sitting with you in his lap. He slides a broad hand up your back, wraps it around the nape of your neck, and pumps his hips up as you sink down, eliciting a series of soft, eager moans from the both of you.

“Feels like I’ve waited so long; I’ve never wanted someone as badly as I wanted you,” you tell him, chest heaving, and he brings you to him for a kiss, something a little rougher, less refined. He’s getting close.

“Never. You make me feel so much.” You reach back against his leg for support, work harder to bring him off, and when he comes he crushes his mouth against yours, delicious and more uncontrolled than you’ve ever seen him. He chants your name, so soft and sweet rolling off of his tongue, and then gets you on your back so he can press deeply inside.

You feel so incredibly full, panting beneath him, your hands on his waist and your feet on the backs of his thighs; his perfect face is inches from yours, all shallow breaths and decadent, passionate kisses, and when you climax you pull him closer, sigh, unravel completely in his embrace.

Maybe good things do happen after all. You hold each other and talk for a while, after a quick pitstop to the restroom, and then your stomach growls—understandably, since the only thing to fill it since lunch was that stupid cheesecake—and Hotch orders takeout on his phone from bed; god bless technology.

There’s a knock at the door twenty minutes later, and you know that’s quick for your favorite Thai place, but you’re not complaining because you’re officially starving. He offers to grab it, throws on his boxers and heads for the living room; after a few minutes, you wonder what’s taking so long, pull on your robe and go to check on him.

Hotch is talking to Derek, who is standing in your living room with a piece of cheesecake and a shit eating grin.

“I came with a peace offering, but now I think I’ll wait for a, ‘Thank you, Derek,’” he says, and you roll your eyes, stalk over and take the cheesecake out of his hands. You give it to Hotch, lean up to kiss Derek on the cheek, and push him toward the door.

“Thank you, Derek. Go away, Derek,” you say with a smile of your own, and he raises his palms and retreats down the hall, laughing as he goes.

This is just one more thing he’ll tease you mercilessly about, but this time the benefits outweigh the costs. Taglist ❤️: @arsonhotchner @mrsh0tchner @ssahotchie @sleepyreaderreads @mintphoenix @meghannnnnn @disgruntledchowchow @azenpal @g-l-pierce @my-rosegold-soul @ssamorganhotchner

[makeste]

my biggest worry about the UA traitor is that it won’t feel significant as the major characters suspected in being it don’t play a big role in the story leading up to now.. like aoyama yes he might cause shock but hagakure?? she doesn’t done much imo but i do think she is the traitor i just wish hori given her some spotlight early on to lead to the moment and the suspense yk

fwiw, you're not alone, anon; I see this concern crop up pretty much every single time there's a U.A. traitor discussion. but the thing is, there's an underlying assumption here that the sole purpose of a plot twist is to shock people. and I would argue that's not true. imo, a well-written plot twist serves many purposes, and shocking the audience is only one of them, and far from the most important one. (in fact, I'd argue that it's not even strictly necessary.) here are four that I can think of right off the top of my head.

they catch and hold the audience's attention. this isn't the case for all plot twists, but it's certainly true for ones which the author chooses to deliberately dangle before the audience, as Horikoshi chose to do with the U.A. traitor plot. if he really wanted to shock people with the reveal, it would have been better for him not to call attention to it in the first place. there was no need whatsoever to have Present Mic bring it up back in chapter 83. but he chose to go that route because he wanted the readers to notice, and he wanted them to start thinking about it and to start speculating about the traitor's identity. it gets the audience excited, and it gives them an incentive to keep reading to see how the story will play out.

they encourage the audience to engage more with the story. the U.A. traitor plot is easily one of the most talked-about elements in the entire story. at this point I don't think there's a single teacher or student character who hasn't been the target of suspicion at some point or other. and again, this was a conscious trade-off on Horikoshi's part, because it would have been much easier to blindside readers with the eventual reveal if they weren't out here forming all of these exhaustive theories. announcing that There Is A Traitor pretty much guarantees that no matter who it ends up being, someone will have predicted it ahead of time. but the trade-off is that fans are paying closer attention to the story, and continuing to think about the plot even when they're not reading the manga, and engaging in more discussion with their fellow fans. and all of that is more than worth the loss of the shock element imo.

they add new layers and depth to the story. this is the hallmark of all of the most iconic plot twists. anyone can write a story and tag on some sort of half-assed unpredictable heel turn at the end in order to try and surprise people and make themselves look smart. but the best plot twists are the ones which actually make sense, and which have foreshadowing sprinkled in throughout the story, so that when you go back and look at everything a second time it makes you go, "ohhh, that's why." a good plot twist should be just as enjoyable to read the second and third time around, even after the shock value has expired, because the satisfaction of seeing a well-planned and executed plot development is still there. and with the very best twists, the story is actually even more enjoyable to go back and reread afterwards, because the knowledge of the twist adds new insight and context and perspective to all of the previous scenes.

and last but not least, they add suspense. there are plenty of ways to keep your readers on their toes that don't necessarily involve surprises coming out of left-field. and this is another thing that the author gains when they make that calculated sacrifice of announcing a plot twist ahead of time. the reader is no longer going to be shocked, because they're now anticipating it -- but that anticipation is a great consolation prize in and of itself. and so with this particular plot, for instance, there's more to the U.A. Traitor Mystery than just the question of who it is. there's also the questions of why, and most important of all, the question of what will happen when everyone finds out? and those questions add a ton of suspense to the story. when will AFO call on Hagakure again? what will he ask her to do? what's going to happen if and when she finally gets caught? how exactly is Aoyama involved in all this? and how will the other members of class A react?? each of these questions has enough inherent suspense that you could make a separate cliffhanger out of each and every one of them if you wanted to.

the thing that everyone always seems to overlook is that the reveal isn't the point. the reveal, when it happens, is going to be a one-time thing which will only be in play for a single chapter at most, after which the plot needs to still be able to stand on all of its other merits. so for instance, suppose that Horikoshi does go for shock over substance, and decides to go with someone "unexpected" like Ochako. sure, you get the shock value, because no one seriously expects it to be her. and maybe to some people it would feel more impactful, because she has a closer connection to Deku and the other characters. but the trade-off is that a twist like that would make absolutely no sense. it completely lacks the careful foreshadowing of the Hagakure/Aoyama twist. and it would detract from Ochako's character development, rather than adding on to it, because it would completely undo so much of what her character journey has been about up until now. all of that sacrificed just for the sake of a one-time twist, which a good chunk of readers would be spoiled for in advance thanks to the weekly spoiler leak cycle. ymmv, but to me that would absolutely not be worth it, and would be a huge waste of both Ochako's character, and of all the careful work that Horikoshi has done to weave this whole plot together.

on the other hand, the fact that Hagakure has had next to no spotlight up till now is exactly what makes her the perfect candidate. with her there's no need to worry about undoing years of carefully planned character development. there's no need to worry about the twist not making sense, or not holding up to the scrutiny of hindsight, because all of Hagakure's interactions with the other characters have always been curiously superficial. we know next to nothing about her family or history or motivations. her character is pretty much a blank slate, which makes her pretty much the only person in 1-A whose betrayal wouldn't feel awkward and forced and completely unnatural.

and as for everyone who's already made up their minds that her betrayal would lack any impact, I think they're both underestimating the amount of impact that any betrayal from one of class A's own would have, and also underestimating Horikoshi's ability to deliver when it comes to ninth-inning backstories. Dabi's backstory came pretty late in the game as well for instance, and that didn't take away from its impact at all. and the same goes for Hawks as well. just because Hagakure doesn't have any backstory yet doesn't mean she's not going to get one. and if you think Horikoshi doesn't have something good cooked up after all this time, then I don't know what else to tell you, except just, "wait and see."

anyway so yeah. and also just a reminder once again that even though fandom sometimes gets bogged down in this kind of discussion involving our personal opinions as to who would be the best traitor candidate, or the most shocking or meaningful or unexpected, etc., at the end of the day the actual evidence we have all points to Hagakure. I know I sound like a broken record at this point, but yeah lol.

[otomegema]

title: Convergence Theory, ch. 2 pairing: Gojo Satoru x Reader summary: You are a lesser family member of the Gojo clan, so far removed you don’t even carry the name, but you carry the Limitless ability and thus the potential to be a bride to the future head of the clan— a fact you patently reject at fifteen. Twelve years later you are a second grade sorcerer struggling to obtain first grade status when the object of your deepest objections offers you a deal. rating: mature tropes: fake dating/engagement, rivals to lovers, slow romance Link: Archive of Our Own

It had been a logical move to allow Gojo to take down your number, entering it into his contacts with an obscene amount of heart and wishing star emojis by the brief glance you caught over his shoulder. It looked like he was already banking on your acceptance of the deal, but when you parted, your to-go sushi in a small plastic bag, you hadn’t expected to hear from him until tomorrow evening at the latest.

Or maybe even never.

But now, back in the hotel you were being comped for while in Tokyo, you wished silently that you’d never given that man your cell phone number.

Honey

Baby

Future-pretend-love-of-my-life

Have you made a decision?

He wasn’t human. It was barely 6am, did he wake up this early for lessons every day? You groaned, nearly swatting the phone off the nightstand in the dark.

You shot back a fast reply.

-oh I’m sorry

-I’m still recovering from getting electrocuted the other day

-Some asshat led a curse to me

You rolled over, managing to get at least another decent half hour of sleep in before the phone chimed again, lighting up the darkened hotel room.

\(★ω★)/

YOUR asshat

Should you choose to accept this mission

You threw off your covers, forcing yourself up to sit against the stack of pillows behind you as you tapped out a reply.

-My pretend asshat

-Mother will be so proud

The dots of his reply began immediately.

So is that a yes?

You sighed, rolling your eyes to yourself.

-Day isn’t over -Hasn’t even started tyvm

The dots began. Stopped. Began and stopped again, this time not reappearing. You tossed your phone onto the bed and teetered up and over to the coffee maker. The pot was finishing brewing by the time your phone chimed again.

You’re so slow.

The addition of punctuation and the sudden lack of emoji seemed almost like a warning flare that Gojo’s patience was waning. But you hardly knew the man and really, what did you care? A favor for a favor was what he offered. You didn’t owe him anything.

I have other options too.

His text continued and for a moment you frowned, wondering if his intention was to have that sound like a threat. You felt heat rising in your throat— he didn’t want to play that game.

So no pressure. Genuinely.

Oh. Good. That was better. You felt the tension uncoil as fast as it had grown.

Tho I AM your only hope for advancement <3

You could have thrown the phone right through the wall. Your thumbs worked rapidly, shooting out your reply in no time.

-Ah yes, your finest quality

A quick appearance of dots.

My special grade ranking? (･ω<)☆

You smirked.

-Humility

You’re no fun.

Text me when you are done being boring.

This was probably the most you had ever spoken to Gojo, despite having seen him on and off from a distance for the better half of your life. He was hard to miss. Every event at the main house would have him and his immediate family at the forefront. No one ever stopped talking about Gojo Satoru and his accomplishments and his strength and his skill as a sorcerer.

It was nauseating, having to pretend to nod and smile like it was all some great blessing just to orbit near him. It was bad enough he read like a sun to your abilities, as if he needed to be made to think he was anymore of the center of the universe.

Your palm itched. The desire to tap back a response now, a firm denial, very strong. But not stronger than your excitement at the possibility of being a first grade sorcerer. It was everything you had wanted. Prestige, recognition, tougher missions and the pay and rewards that came with them.

You were no weakling. Sure the telemetry technique took you out of commission, but it was hardly your greatest feat. You had finally been able to manifest the cursed technique lapse, blue. Granted, it was a one off and exhausted you so fully afterwards that you nearly fainted on the spot… but your tolerance was getting better. The precision of your manipulation of your cursed energy would never be on par with Gojo, but you could, some day, maybe even manage to shoot the technique off twice.

Reversal Red was next to impossible. And Hollow Technique? Truly impossible. The Six Eyes was needed to even attempt it. Most of your practice had been devoted to perfecting your long distance teleportation skills, fine tuning your telemetry technique and working on establishing your domain. That one was easier. The Unlimited Void crushed your opponent beneath an overload of sensory information, information you could easily channel and tap into with your own unique skills as a Limitless user.

But like all things, you were only second best. And barely. It was a joke. Comparing yourself to Gojo. He was on a level you could never achieve— unless.

You grabbed your phone, hastily dialing the new number and wincing at the loud, cheerful greeting from the other line.

“Good morning, moon of my soul, tenderest heart, darling—!“

“I haven’t even said yes yet, you monster.”

“Ah! A name of my very own? Be still my trembling heart!”

“I wish to make an amendment to the agreement.”

There was a lengthy pause. You could practically hear the slow spread of that sly smile. Content as the cat who caught the canary.

He knew he was about to win.

“Let’s hear it.”

“If you are putting my name forward for first grade, that means you have someone else in mind to be the second backer and someone in mind for me to shadow on missions and train with, yeah?

“I do.” Gojo said, his tone surprisingly serious.

“Have them put my name forward instead. I want to shadow you.”

Gojo laughed, a short mirthless thing, “What makes you think I have the time?”

“You have enough time to play pretend, I’d think any fiancé would leap at the chance to be with his lovely wife-to-be and keep her safe.”

Gojo hummed.

“Why me?”

This was an oddly familiar conversation.

“Purely selfish reasons. You are the best Limitless user. I am a Limitless user. I want you to teach me.”

“You aren’t on my level.” He said, no malice in his words, just simple facts.

“Then teach me what I can handle.”

There was another pause.

“I’m not gonna go easy on you just because you’re my girl.”

The bare utterance of the endearment sent a shiver up your arms and not an entirely pleasant one either. His girl. God, how would you even begin to explain this fake engagement to your parents? Who knew the depth of your jealousy and bitterness over Gojo since you were— what? Five? Younger?

“Since I am just your ‘pretend’ girl, I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“Your funeral, babe.” Gojo said, “But I’m glad we resolved this early! Because we are having dinner. Reservations are made, I’ll pick you up at seven. Wear something pretty!”

Your words caught in your throat, stuttering across your tongue and unable to force out before the line cut off and he was gone.

You pressed the edge of your phone to your temple, already feeling a headache coming on. Something pretty? Shit.

-Something pretty? -Too vague. I have no idea what I’m supposed to wear.

A dress! Something for the evening. A Line.

V Neck def

Show off what puberty gave ya (＾〃＾)

Chiffon with ruffle lace

And grey-blue

-Why?

To match my eyes <3

-Where in the world do you expect me to find that specific dress in the next few hours

Downstairs with hotel staff I had it dropped off <3 <3 <3

-That’s creepy

(つω`｡) </3 </3

-Enough with the hearts -How much? I’ll pay you back

It is a gift <3

-How’d you even know my size

A gentleman never reveals his secrets

┐(‘～` )┌

You sighed and set aside your phone to call down to the front desk. Sure enough, a few minutes later someone brought up a large white box, tied with a grey-blue ribbon. You set the package on the small counter in your room’s kitchen and opened the lid, brushing aside soft tissue paper.

The dress was ridiculously soft, made of fine, nearly translucent layers of chiffon. It was a lovely color, the sight making you suddenly think of the feeling in the air before a thunderstorm, the smell of rain. The ribbon matched.

You looked for a price tag and found none, but folded away at the bottom of the box was a hand written receipt. You paled at the figure displayed on it.

-Gojo, I can’t possibly accept this.

Don’t be stupid. No one would believe I was serious about a woman unless I was positively spoiling her rotten. s’not like it broke the bank!

-Forget the first-grade rec

-Pay my bills

Too late! Negotiations are closed :)

-So what the hell am I doing at this dinner?

Eating Duh and being seen with yours truly easy peasy right?

You sipped your coffee, keeping the mug well away from the dress. It was certainly nicer than anything you had ever owned in— well. Ever. It was hard to argue that there were clearly going to be some additional perks to this arrangement you hadn’t previously thought of.

Plus we gotta go over some ground rules

-Thought you said negotiations were closed

-This mean we can revisit my bills?

g2g

Students need me!

Ttyl babe

The ease in which that man showered you so soon with endearments was nauseating. Had he ever even had a girlfriend before? Or just those usual moon-eyed women who fawned and petted him?

And now everyone was gonna think you were one of those girls. You drank your coffee faster, relishing in the way it burned down your throat and overpowered the bad taste in your mouth.

“First-grade… first-grade. Remember the first-grade.”

And training. You’d squeeze every possible benefit from this arrangement out that you could. Sorcerers worked in teams, but at the end of the day, it was every man and woman for themselves.

Let them think what they want when you were seen tonight. You would come out on top.

***

The day passed quickly and you found yourself standing in front of the hotel mirror, twisting back and forth to get a feel for the movement of the dress— and half practicing staying upright in the heels that had arrived not even a moment later.

They were high enough to be appealing, but low enough to keep you from falling over on your face. Gojo had texted an explanation that he figured you were out of practice in wearing anything other than sneakers and combat boots and to consider them training wheels.

You’d wanted, once again, to punch him in the face.

The kind of girl he liked was a stilettos kinda girl, you guessed, huffing to yourself as you sat down and twirled one of your ankles, stretching the muscle. Even the low heels were not entirely comfortable, but you’d manage.

Checking your makeup one last time, you picked up your own worn purse and slung it over your shoulder. Women who wore these kind of dresses and came in on the arm’s of other men and women like Gojo never had anything more than the smallest clutch— but you weren’t those women.

You made your way down to the lobby and were surprised to find a chauffeur waiting outside with a very very sleek European car of some kind. You weren’t great about those kinds of things, only noting the seats were made with soft black leather and there was even a divider built in like in a limo to give the passengers privacy.

The chauffeur ushered you into the empty car and you sat back with a sigh as silently he delivered you to the next destination. You had, in some small place, hoped Gojo would already be present.

Why he felt the need for such spectacle was beyond you, but maybe this was what was expected of a clan family son when he courted a young woman. It felt— weird. Nice, but weird. The drive was not overly long, the car coming to stop.

You knew this restaurant. Some fancy French-Japanese fusion place that charged a hundred dollars for a single plate with a broiled pear covered in wasabi or some weird shit. Already you felt your stomach churning with anxiety and encroaching regret.

This was gonna suck.

This was gonna suck so bad.

The chauffeur opened the door and you barely managed not to wobble on the pavement. Feeling stilted and exposed as other guests and couples regarded you with open curiosity and veiled judgment.

Clearly they were used to seeing the same people come and go from this restaurant and you were not one of them.

You clutched your bag tighter to your arm, hand reaching inside instinctively to find your phone and text Gojo you were out. This was over. Find someone else— when your surname was shouted from the door.

All eyes turned as if in sync to Gojo, wearing simple trousers and a white shirt tucked in. He didn’t even have a tie or a jacket, his dark glasses obscuring his eyes even as he looked right at you.

A few people tsked their disapproval, but they may as well have been ghosts for all the attention Gojo paid them. When you didn’t immediately make your way over to him, Gojo shoved his hands into his pockets and strode over to meet you.

He grinned, the lowering of his chin and the slow rise back up an obvious indicator he was sizing you up and didn’t care if you knew.

He whistled.

“Ow, ow!”

“Shut it— you know this dress could cover my rent for half a year?! And these shoes! I could buy a used car with this ensemble.”

“You even drive?”

“Not the point.”

He laughed again, loud and careless.

“Figured since you were dawdling you might need an arm to lean on.” Gojo said, offering your his elbow without removing his hands from his pockets, “Or perhaps…”

He feigned a gasp, “Are you feeling shy?”

“I’m leaving.” you deadpanned, managing half a turn before his hand was on your waist, turning you back. He took your hand, the feeling of his palm on your side still burned into your skin as he hooked your arm in his own.

You allowed it, leaning on him only a little. He looked pleased, smugly so, as he led you inside and to a table that was already set for two.

There was a wine glass sitting by your own plate. The one by Gojo’s was turned upside down and set to the side… a can of soda sitting, bright and out of place, in its spot.

“… where did you even get that.”

“Vending machine.” Gojo said simply and even kicked your chair out a little for you to take a seat. How flattering.

“Wine is for you, if you want it. Figured it might help take the edge off.”

You rolled your eyes, not bothering to wait for the server to return and simply tipping the bottle of red into your own glass.

“What about you?”

“I don’t drink.” He said, cracking the tab on his soda with a loud pop. Several eyes filtered your way, whispers behind hands and napkins as Gojo all but drained the can in one gulp.

“So— ground rules?” you said, unfolding a cloth napkin and settling it in a half folded triangle across your lap the way you saw other women doing.

“Straight in, huh? Alright. Terms.” Gojo lifted one finger, “As already discussed, you and I will be ‘courting’— dating. Whatever the fuck. I’ll take care of arranging the dates, you show up, act sufficiently smitten and in about a year give or take, we break up.”

Gojo lifted a second finger, “Two. In exchange, I have two first grade sorcerers who will back your promotion. And, as requested—“ Gojo’s voice dropped a fraction, almost grumpily, “—you’ll come with me on my missions for your first semi-grade probation.”

“Now ground rules. At any point either of us wants out, it’s done. No questions asked. But don’t think that means you get to ditch and just keep that first grade appointment. I’ll make sure you end up right back at a grade two.”

You sipped your wine, giving your mouth something to do than form some very choice words at that moment. Gojo noticed, his smile almost a snarl, but the expression quickly vanished. You had a funny feeling trying to hoodwink or swindle him would end very poorly for anyone.

“And when you develop feelings for me—“

“If.” You amended quickly, but Gojo ignored you.

“—when you develop feelings for me. You have to tell me and again, the engagement is over. You can keep your rank. No harm no foul. I can hardly blame you for falling for me.” Gojo said with a wistful sigh. You were grateful for the arrival of the first course, forcing you both to fall silent for a moment until they departed.

You had no idea what was on the plate. Some kind of salad? It was hardly a mouthful. Gojo didn’t even touch his silverware and feeling less than impressed with the cuisine, you didn’t either.

You drank your wine.

“Barring sickness or injury you are required to appear for every date I set. Including the ones where you have to meet other members of the main family.”

You frowned, but didn’t object.

“Wait— what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Is the engagement off when you develop feelings for me?” You said lightly, trying to play off your smile as wistful.

Gojo scoffed, his reaction almost enough to hurt your feelings… just a little bit.

“Non-issue. I don’t do feelings.”

“God, you sound like a fuck boy.” The words came out before you could stop yourself, the last syllable off your tongue right at the moment the server had returned to reclaim your plates. An eyebrow was raised and you hid your face down with a flustered cough.

By the time you looked back up, you got the joy of seeing Gojo staring at you from over his glasses, a broad and deeply amused grin on his face.

“Not non-issue. If I get the feelings rule you get the feelings rule. End discussion.”

Gojo shrugged, again not touching the newest course which was, to your extreme annoyance, some kind of grilled pear.

“You should slow down.” He warned in a sing song voice as you poured another glass.

“I’m not a baby— okay. So we got terms, we got ground rules. Anything else?”

“You can’t refuse my gifts.”

Your eyes narrowed sharply and he simply smiled and hummed with a shrug.

“It’s for appearances! Oh. Speaking of appearances—“ Gojo sat up, fishing something from his back pocket and sitting it on the table. You stared at the simple black box, fearing a vein might burst in your forehead at any moment.

“What is that.” You stated more than asked.

“Open it.” Gojo said, his voice light and encouraging as he nudged the box closer, “Come on, open it. Open it. You know you wanna, sweetie, light of my life, fire of my lo—“

You snatched the box up if only to stop him from finishing that sentence.

You swallowed hard, the sounds of the room fading out as you flipped open the box and found, sitting upon a small satin pillow— a… key?

You lifted it from the box, noting it even had a little custom keychain made to look like a white cat with a tiny blindfold.

“It’s to my apartment!” Gojo announced with a giddy laugh, clasping his hands together in a way that was entirely un-adult like.

“… I have my own place. Thank you.”

“In Kyoto. This is here, in Tokyo. Where you will need to stay for this all to work, remember?”

“Where will you stay?” You asked dryly, vaguely hoping his answer would be something other than what it was no doubt going to be.

“Very funny. You’ll have your own room—if you want it.”

“Why—“ your voice nearly broke and you had to take a moment to clear it, “Why uh— why wouldn’t I be wanting my own room?”

“Feelings are off limits, naturally. But if you want to take me up again on that offer from back in the day…”

The surge of cursed energy that rippled off of you was so strong Gojo nearly toppled backwards, his laugh gaining a somewhat nervous lift to it if only for just a moment.

“I’ll have my own room. My own locked room.” You bit out, feeling your face flushing hot and hating every second Gojo seemed to be enjoying your utter mortification, “Unless that is a problem.”

“Nope. Not at all. Probably for the best ultimately, I’ve been told I have a bad habit of dickmatizing folks.”

“… I’m sorry, you what.”

“Dickmatizing! Ya know. Like hypnotizing but with—“

“I got it!” You groaned, pressing your face into your hand. When did it get so damn hot in here? You snatched up your wine glass and finished off the contents, feeling even hotter.

“Is that all?”

“Unless anything comes to your mind, then yep.” Gojo finished, ignoring yet another course. You were almost tempted. The dish was some kind of meat, but the sauce drenched over it smelt sharply of something bitter and sour at the same time. You stomach recoiled at the thought and yet rumbled in protest to its growing hunger.

“So what do you think?”

“You’re disgusting?” you said flatly.

“I meant about the deal.”

You glowered openly at him. It was going to take a lot of practice to turn that deprecating expression you felt naturally pull unto your face at his sight into something loving and tender… but for first-grade ranking? For lessons on your Limitless? Fuck. Fuck you’d do it.

You poured the remainder of the bottle into your glass and polished it off in one shot.

“I accept.”

Gojo clapped his hands together, “Excellent! Now let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Huh?” You barely managed to get the questioning sound out before Gojo was up and out of his chair. You scrambled up, head rushing with the wine and the weirdness of this entire conversation. By the time you managed to catch up with him, he snaked out his arm and wrapped it around your waist, pulling you flush and warm against his side.

You about threw him across the room, but your attempts at a grapple were thwarted by the sudden thrumming of the familiar Neutral Limitless ability, stalling your moments to such a small speed you felt suddenly frozen.

The impulse to toss him passed and instead you let him escort you outside where the car was still waiting.

“Take us to the place, ya know the one.” Gojo said to the driver and in a surprising show of gallantry, actually held the door open for you to get in first.

“And open the back window. If she throws up, I’d rather it be on the pavement.”

You elbowed him in the chest— accidentally of course.

***

The car drive was a bit longer, taking you away from the glitz and glamor of this side of Tokyo and to what looked arguably as one of the most hole-in-the-wall noodle joints you had ever seen. The street kitchen was small, the counter open outside with a few bar stools. The smells of teriyaki and spices and cooking oils were heavy in the air and made your mouth water.

Gojo perched on one of the stools and you came to sit alongside him, watching as he ripped open a set of chopsticks and rubbed the splinters off.

He ordered quickly—yakisoba and yakitori. Along with several packages of mochi they kept behind the counter in the same kinda plastic bags you’d find at a convenience store.

Gojo had been right— you should have slowed down. The world had a light haze to it… a slight tilting. His hand on your back felt massive and overly warm as he guided you back to sitting straight.

“Eat, ya lush.” He ordered, piling noodles and chicken unto a smaller empty plate for you from his own, “C’mon.”

Gojo popped one of the mochi bags and dumped the sticky sweet confection right on top of your yakisoba. You grimaced, picking the sweet off and trying to wipe some of the sauce from it before you took a generous bite.

The food was greasy and delicious and abundant and cheap and your mouth was in heaven. Even having not used your Limitless since yesterday, every taste still felt heightened. Maybe it was the way your cursed powers tried to compensate from the wine, but everything somehow was more delicious.

You attempted to snag another piece of yakitori from Gojo’s plate, only to have your chopsticks blocked with a clack.

“Ah ah ah— hands off.”

“What’s yours is mine, right?” You chided, only to be dodged again in a movement faster than your eyes could perceive. Did he just use his Limitless to counter you? Feeling emboldened, you activated your own, the faint pulse of the energy so close together giving you the sort of deflecting feeling one experiences when holding two sides of the same magnet near together.

Repelling, shifting. Trying to shove the energy into a way that the two forces would collide rather than deflect.

You were concentrating fully. The minuscule movements invisible to even your eyes, but the feeling was there. A sort of blindsight where you didn’t need the Six Eyes to tell you what was happening— but it would have definitely helped. You flicked a glance up and lost your control, your chopsticks shooting away and nearly cracking one in two.

Gojo chuckled. It was the expression on his face that had distracted you. His eyelids were half dropped, his smile soft as he readied himself to deflect you again. Your energy was no match for his… but it matched. It was made of the same stuff. Controlled the same way. He could see, with the sharp clarity of his Six Eyes, every tiny precise movement you made with your cursed energy. A mirror of his own abilities in miniature.

He was playing with you. And all the sudden you felt as if a small knot in your chest had shaken free, the coil coming undone.

Was there anyone else on this Earth you could do such a thing with?

Feeling strange and suddenly shy, you drew your energy back in and refocused on eating from your own plate, grumbling at your loss.

A second later, Gojo’s chopsticks moved over your plate, dropping another helping of noodles in.

A small concession. A victory in it's own right, even if it had not won the yakitori.

“Sober up, will ya? But don’t eat too fast. I’m not cleaning up vomit, no way, no how.”

“You’re always so vulgar.” you murmured, speaking around a mouthful of noodles and mochi. Gojo turned and stuck his tongue out at you. A confirmation or a reprisal, you couldn’t be sure.

But regardless, it did something to you he had never managed to do before.

It made you laugh.

[bilgisticallykosher]

Happy Ending; Years Alone, Then Not

Helping Establish Yet Another Transformation Nuzzle

Who remembers this? No one? Great, good, I wrote a fic about it after I started it March eleventh of last year out of nowhere with no planning. Wrote it in a week and then didn't touch it again.

Please read the original How Easy You Are To Need by delimeful here or on AO3 here

Warnings: Uh, some possessive thoughts about people. That's it?

Word Count: 1615

Masterpost | Next Chapter | AO3

-----

That first full moon, he'd been surrounded by his humans. Dealing with the apparently-greater-than-he-could-have-thought misconceptions aside, it had been nice. 

Mostly. 

He hadn't paid much attention to it, of course, not with the I'm-a-bigger-idiot-than-even-I-knew revelation. But there had been something missing. Something off. Something that could have been better.

Over the next several months, and subsequent full moons, things changed. (He could practically hear Patton's 'You mean aside from your Shifting?' joke, and resolved not to bring up that particular turn of phrase out loud, (at least not around Logan, for his sake.))

He certainly shifted around the full moon, but it wasn't exactly a rare moment that he was found in his wolf form the other three weeks of the month. He didn't necessarily sleep while shifted, but when he did, one or more of his humans would join, cuddled around him, arm over his furry pelt like he was nothing more than a slightly oversized dog. 

But that was the rest of the time. Around the full moon was another story entirely. He hadn't realized it fully back when he was by himself in the forest, day in and day out, but his personality was naturally a little…different around the time of the moon. 

He'd always had a natural inclination to monitor the perimeter of his forest, watching over it. He'd always prevented it from magical damage, unnatural threats, dangerous intruders, save three humans that could have so, so easily been threats. That had been true no matter what point in the month it was, so he'd never noticed an increase in feelings when the moon was waxing. 

Now, however, he'd noticed that he'd become a little more territorial. Or, maybe a little more than a little more territorial. He'd been embarrassed when Logan had idly asked him about it one day, in between moons, but he secretly felt that he couldn't help himself. Especially after all they'd been through, back when he'd had those unbelievable beliefs. 

So it was now common that in the days leading up to the full moon, he'd give an extra lap or two around the forest, mine, no one touches, mine, nobody hurts it, nobody hurts them, mine, nothing comes between me and what's mine, mine, mine. His humans, meanwhile, would pile up in the big bed, able to fit all four of them with room to spare, and they would not cuddle up around Virgil. 

Instead, they arranged themselves all pressed together, and allowed Virgil's big, fuzzy body to lie across all three of them as he snuggled into them. 

It was thus that Virgil found himself in bed on his back, a mockery of that first time he'd exposed his weak point to them, with Patton finally giving him belly rubs. He had to admit, they were really quite nice. Patton was the only one of his humans that was ready for bed right now, but he was able to push down the urge to worry about the others, mostly because he could see them from his current position. He watched as they brushed their teeth (taking turns at the sink in the bathroom visible from the bedroom) and putting on their pajamas with the door closed.  

Virgil at least had enough sense that he didn't listen to the part of him that said he had to watch them get dressed. Privacy was privacy. But even if they had been willing to have him in the room with them…well, that was a layered issue, anyway, and he'd get to dealing with that hopefully never. 

For now, he enjoyed the belly rubs that Patton was so enthusiastically giving. The second that Logan came nearer to the bed, Virgil turned and jumped off, prompting a small yelp of surprise from Patton. He'd feel worse about that later, but he was too intent on circling around Logan, sniffing him to make sure everything was alright. If something had happened to him in the short time he hadn't been paying as much attention, he couldn't allow it, nobody could touch…

But he was fine. Virgil allowed himself to relax that much more, but not fully, until Roman was back, too. He listened to Patton and Logan chatting idly, determining what their sleeping arrangements were, as Logan took off his glasses and other accessories. It wasn't long before Roman entered, and Virgil enthusiastically gave him the same once-over (okay, maybe thrice-over) until he was satisfied. 

Roman chuckled and scratched behind Virgil's ears. He ended in a light tap on his nose, muttering a quiet boop! Patton pulled down the covers beside him invitingly, and Roman bowed, once to Virgil to excuse himself, and once to Patton. Logan and Virgil shared an eyeroll, but he followed after him as he headed for the bed anyway. 

Roman climbed on, settling next to Patton, and Logan followed suit. Virgil finally jumped on top of them, delicately, if he bruised them or scratched them or made them bleed or- and lay down with his head on Logan's chest. They exchanged goodnights, Virgil doing the best that he could in this form, and they gradually fell asleep. 

At some point during the night, Virgil woke to the sensation of someone trying to get out from underneath him. Well that was just unacceptable. He growled lowly, opened his eyes, and turned his head to see Patton trying to wriggle his way from under his haunches. He growled again, and Patton frowned, not stopping his movements. 

"I'm sorry, Virge," he whispered, trying not to wake the others, "but I have to pee." Virgil just growled at him again. That meant that he had to get up. Not allowed. Virgil had to be on top of him to protect him, and Patton had to be in the bed to be protected. "Viiiirgiiiiiiiiil," he whined. "I've gotta go, come on!" Virgil shook his head back and forth once. Didn't he know in the calm of the night was a dangerous time to be up and around alone? 

Patton sighed. "Okay, how about you walk me to the bathroom, so you can watch over me?" How did he know that was what the problem was? Logan must have discussed his theories with them. And knowing Logan, his theories were probably dead on. He should be mortified. Instead, he was glad of the offer, even as he grumbled in apparent reluctance. 

He gently rose onto his legs, careful not to shift the mattress too much, and lightly jumped off of the bed. Patton made a relieved noise as he joined Virgil on the floor, immediately heading towards the bathroom. They were halfway through the door, Virgil, alert, at his side, when they heard Roman shift, and speak. They looked back at the bed. 

"Mmmm…….. cold." And that was all the warning that he gave before hefting Logan up and over onto his body like a living blanket. Logan yelped loudly, waking up immediately and struggled for a moment, until he was able to gauge what had happened. Roman, somehow still half-asleep, eyes closed, shushed Logan, patting him on the face. He huffed and accepted his fate, relaxing slightly, before giving Virgil and Patton a defeated look. Patton was shaking with silent laughter, leaning against Virgil slightly for support. 

Virgil gave Logan a wolf-y grin, nudging Patton until he was upright, and came behind him to guide him the rest of the way to the bathroom. He waited outside the door, Patton's snickering eventually tapering off as he did what he needed to.  Virgil kept an eye and both ears out, listening for anything off, either in or outside the house. Soon, he heard Patton call out that he was almost done, along with a flush and the sound of him washing his hands, before coming back out to Virgil. He gave him a few scratches around his ears before returning to the bedroom with him. 

They had to pause at the doorway again, to allow Patton to be overwhelmed by cute. Logan seemed to have fallen asleep as he was, on top of Roman. As they composed themselves and walked closer, Logan's eyes fluttered open. 

"Help," he implored, not looking all that urgent. Patton hid another snicker before getting back in bed, gently tapping Roman on his shoulder. 

"Ro," he attempted to peel off one of his arms wrapped around Logan. "Come on, Virgil's back, you can let go now." He gave another tug, which seemed to wake him enough to relax his grip, and Logan was able to escape back to his spot with a heavy sigh. Roman started frowning again, hand reaching over towards Patton, so Virgil took that moment to jump onto the bed, back to his position by Logan, and returned to his protective sleep pose.

Immediately he felt Roman relax, which prompted him to relax also, safety assured once more. There was minimal movement as he waited for them to all fall asleep again, not content until they did, not able to quell his instincts until he was assured they were safe enough to stop watching over them. 

Maybe at some point, they'd have to have a talk about it, or he'd be ashamed of it. Right now, though, as he felt Patton's arm swing over him, Roman clutching at his fur like a lifeline, and Logan cuddled up with his front paw between his arms, he didn't think they had much of a problem with it. In fact, he realized as he heard their breathing even out, it almost seemed as though they needed to watch out for him, as much as he needed to watch out for them. 

He was asleep within the minute.

---

Hey, I've got a discord based around my cursed fic, come join!

@katelynn-a-fan @dwbh888 @royal-stormcloud @thefivecalls @awkwardjester @ollyollyoxinfree @intruxiety @brain-deadx0 @the-grounded-raven @just-your-typical-trans-guy @grouptalekindnesssoul @the-hoely-bleach @anvil527up @fanficloverinthesun @callboxkat @legendsgates @nonasficcollection @rainbowbowtie @10moonymhrivertam @idont-freaking-know @somehow-i-got-an-account @aceawkwardunicorn @enby-ralsei @cottonwoolsocks  @silverobsidion-speaks @robinwritesshitposts   @a-fandom-trashdump @averykedavra @demoniccheese83 @drarrymalecsolangelo

[yuzukult]

—saccharine

pairing: seokjin x reader word count: 2,319 prompt: seokjin doesn’t believe in love at first sight. so... what’s this feeling that’s churning in the pit of his stomach when he meets you for the first time? warnings: none. minor cursing. fluff attack. a/n: to celebrate my follower milestone! thank you all for supporting and reading my fics, it means a lot to me!

Everyday is a continuous, recurring cycle. 

First, the alarm rings. Then, he slams the snooze button on his phone before resuming into a light sleep for another eight minutes. The annoying horn sings again, and a wash of regret hits from never changing it out of the default, so he finally accepts this by getting up and sliding his feet lazily into a pair of slippers by the side of his bed before making way into the bathroom.

His hair is a mess. But it’s a mess everyday. Life has gone to the point that even brushing his teeth has become a dreadful chore. Shuffling through his bin of hair products, he finds the mousse he consistently loses and finds on repeat and then slaps a boatload of it onto his head.

This is basically a day-in-the-life of Kim Seokjin. Except it’s everyday. It’s never ending. It feels like one of those time loop movies where when he ends his day, it starts back off exactly like it did yesterday. 

To be fair, he can’t complain. He’s got a roof over his head, an apartment all to himself (that means without a roommate), plus a well-paying full time job. It’s hard to whine and cry about how his life seems to have no excitement, other than the occasional meeting with his friends, but contrarily… there’s not much to look forward to.

It’s the same mundane activities. Opening the cabinet above his kitchen counter as he usually does at this time, he grabs his favorite Cheerios. Good starts with happy hearts, as their commercials say, but Seokjin isn’t entirely sure that’s true. 

He’s a “cereal first and milk last” kind of guy. Not that he judges those who do it backwards, but he thinks if anyone does the routine in the opposite order, they might actually be backwards. It’s a condition—he makes it seem, and it’s a rather controversial topic for the guy.

Nonetheless, he enjoys his bowl of breakfast goods. He reads the news on his phone, and when the reminder on his watch dings, Seokjin rushes to put his dishes into the sink and hauls himself down the hall, in direction to his walk-in-closet that evidently is just too big for it being only himself. It’s a constant indication that he’s alone. 

By the time it’s 8:30AM, he’s dressed in his suit and tie, hair slicked back, and has a satchel slung over his shoulder in preparation of yet another day at the office.

But maybe he’d stop by that new place this morning. Change of pace. Maybe it’ll liven up his day and give him something to look forward to. Maybe he’d like it.

The place is around the corner, less than a three minute walk the moment he leaves his apartment building, and if he timed himself, it probably takes longer to leave his home and out of the building. The shop is cute; decor stickers are laid out delicately along the windows, the walls are painted a pretty blush pink, and there’s smiles on all the workers’ faces as if they enjoyed being there.

There’s a smile on your face in particular that captures his attention.

Seokjin is a relatively kind guy, or so he thinks he is. He’s never pinned over girls like those shows he’s seen on TV, but he’s had his fair share of relationships. He’s not shy, but he’s also not outgoing. He has an abundance of friends but only a few are ones he trusts. 

And the girlfriends he had were great but… no one really appreciates his generosity as much as he’d like.

He thinks he’s crazy at this moment, quite frankly, because he doesn’t believe in love at first sight. It’s this theory and idea that writers of a romance genre film and story that people whipped up together to make it seem more appealing to their audiences. But he doesn’t actually think it’s true.

Or is it?

Hair up in a messy bun, there’s a swipe of flour that coats your one cheek, and a smile that dresses your face so beautifully. You’re in a simple outfit that’s a combination of a white tee and blue jeans with the shop’s apron on top, while running around to keep up with all the orders coming through. He has hearts brimming in his pupils and he can’t seem to stop the way his chest tightens the second he lays his eyes on you. Is this what love at first sight is?

Seokjin doesn’t only regret not changing the default ringtone of his alarm this morning. He also regrets not asking for your number.

When he reaches his office, he realizes he forgets to ask for cream and sugar at the bakery. The dark, warm liquid glides down his throat with some difficulty; the bitterness layering his tongue but the memory of you sparks sweetness from within. Who were you? He doesn’t even know you and you’re on his mind like crazy.

Now, Seokjin has seen How I Met Your Mother. He’s watched the nine seasons, totaling out to two-hundred and eight episodes, so needless to say, Seokjin knows what goes on in that show. And ironically, he hates Ted. The guy is a hopeless romantic that thinks every girl he has his eyes on is ‘the one.’ Seokjin refuses to become like Ted, and he would be caught dead replicating those same actions.

Then why the fuck is he caught up on a girl he’s seen once? 

The second time Seokjin comes by the bakery, it’s a hell of a lot less busy. In fact, it’s only three people that man the storefront, rather than the six that he saw the first time he stopped by. He has his fingers crossed behind his back as he waits in the queue patiently, hoping you’d be the one taking his order this time around.

Luck must be on his side because you’re greeting him with those pearly white teeth. “Good morning, nice to see you. What can I get for you today?”

Abort, abort! He can’t talk. He swears that his heart has found its way up into his throat, and he can’t get any words to come out.

You blink. Those gorgeous long lashes brush your cheeks so deftly, and it swells his heart that’s now lodged in the path of his airways. “Sir?”

Seokjin swallows. “Oh—yeah, sorry sorry. Uh, can I get a medium hot coffee? Cream and sugar, please. Forgot to mention that last time and I almost died from the bitterness.” Was that an appropriate comment to make? Did it make you laugh? Or were you offended that he just insulted your workplace’s coffee

He cheers in success on the inside when a soft chuckle escapes from your lips. “Aw, I’m sorry to hear. I guess we should have also done our part and asked if you wanted any. Did you want to order anything else?”

Ah. Was the conversation already ending? But it’s so soon! He barely held the dialogue for a couple seconds, and since he’s got your attention, he can’t let go now. Quickly, his eyes skim the menu and the display case full of baked goods. “Uh, what do you recommend?” He asks, gesturing to the sweets. 

You wave your hand for another coworker to take the next customer’s order. Walking over to the sweets, Seokjin trails over as well, observing your expression. You’ve got your brows furrowed, deep in thought with a quirk of the side of your lips, engrossed with the plentiful of options. “Do you like tarts?”

—

Seokjin is a regular now. 

Whenever the clock strikes 7:30AM, he’s already in his work attire, hair at its best, and has checked his face in the mirror for the fiftieth time. Then, he’s on route to the corner bakery.

He wants to look good before he meets you. Handsome guy for a pretty girl. It’s only right.

The bells at the front door of the shop ring loudly the moment he enters in, and immediately his ears are filled with that beautiful laugh of yours, but you’re not alone. It’s accompanied by someone else’s, a voice that doesn’t match any of your other coworkers and his jaw clenches at the thought. Who is this male that claims to be the purpose of your giggling with a mop he calls hair on the top of his head?

“Oh!” You beam, lifting up the cup of hot coffee in hand. “Seokjin! Come here, I have a new pastry for you to try, and your daily caffeinated beverage to pair it with. Plus, I want you to meet my friend.”

His name is Taehyung. The freaking guy looks like a model, strutting into the café like it’s his runway, and when his gaze meets Seokjin’s, it makes Seokjin feel small.

Seokjin likes you, if the amount of times he comes in a week is evidence for it. He doesn’t just do that either; he often stirs up a conversation, asks how your day is going so far, and even goes out of his way to remember small details so he can bring it up next time. But he can’t help but wonder—do you have a boyfriend? Are you being kind only because Seokjin is a customer? Or are you normally this sweet as those raspberry filled pastries you set him up with? 

And those questions are only emphasized when Taehyung smiles, extends his hands and offers Seokjin a firm shake. “I’m Taehyung.”

Seokjin’s entire work day has gone to shit. All he could think about was who Taehyung was and why you were so adamant about Seokjin meeting him. 

After taking the last bite of the delicious pastry you packed for him (free of charge, too), it hits him. 

If Seokjin liked you, he should just confess his feelings, no matter what the consequences. Instead of sitting here with his shoulders slouched, eating this treat you gave him with a pout upon his lips, he shouldn’t continue waiting around and feeling sorry for himself anymore. Why would he make himself suffer like this when there’s a way to end this vicious cycle? 

Seokjin concludes that he’s going to confess tonight. 

—

What Seokjin learns about you is that you are by far not close to his ideal dream girl. 

You’re the “milk first, cereal last” gal, and he believes you’re ass backwards. You like consistency, and your favorite ringtone is the sound of those stupid horns he has for alarms in the morning. You enjoy the first few hours of your day, basking in the routine that you’ve put together yourself, including the one that had recently involved seeing Seokjin’s face. 

And although you’re not his dream girl, you’ve become it.

“I like you,” He finally confesses, a bouquet of flowers in his hands that match the decor stickers plastered on the shop's windows. “Would you… go out with me?”

Seokjin isn’t here in the mornings like he normally is, opting that since this is definitely a change of pace, he might as well go all out. Maybe this will be different. Maybe he’ll be happier.

Stunned, your mouth drops open. You’re stuttering over your own words, practically malfunctioning like a machine. “Wha—Like—what? Like… you like me as in like… a woman? More than a friend? You want to take me out?”

“Uh,” Seokjin scratches behind his ear anxiously. Was his plan backfiring? “Yes? I… like you. As in, I come here in the mornings for coffee, yeah, but I mostly came to see you. I enjoy hearing your laugh, seeing your smiles, and listening to you talk about these pastries like they’re your world and I—“ He pauses, inhaling a sharp breath, “—then you introduced me to this really good looking guy named Taehyung and I didn’t know what my chances were with you anymore, so here I am. Confessing.”

You’re silent. Truthfully, Seokjin’s not feeling good about this. His palms are sweaty, his heart is racing, and you still haven’t said a word and he’s sure that over thirty seconds have already passed by.

“What—“ You start again, quickly stopping yourself with a shake of your head. “Thank god, really.”

The front of Seokjin’s brows dip in confusion. “I’m sorry?”

You laugh, combing your fingers through your loosened locks. “I’ve been trying to tell my coworkers that I had this stupid crush on you since you first came in. You’re such a great listener, you’re handsome, and fun to talk to. They think you’re too good to be true, so they thought you wanted to be my gay best friend. Hence… the Taehyung test.”

“The Taehyung test?” Seokjin reiterates. 

Chewing on your bottom lip, your eyes are swirls of apologies. “He’s cute, right? Either you’d get jealous that a guy like him has my attention and you like me, or you like him and you’re jealous that he’s making me laugh instead of you.”

Seokjin’s shoulders drop in relief. “So… does that mean you’ll go out with me?”

You smile softly. “Of course, Jin.”

He doesn’t think those mundane activities he identified before are boring anymore. No, not with you, they’re not. He doesn’t mind watching you pour milk instead of cereal first in the mornings because he’s glad he gets to be the one who pinches your side teasingly and call you a weirdo. He doesn’t hate the sound of the horns—okay, a lie, he hates it so much, but they’re bearable when you’re around since you don’t hesitate to shut it off the minute it rings, and immediately hop out the bed, without using the snooze button. Brushing his teeth is a delight, especially when he sees your toothbrush sitting in your own designated cup on your side of the sink.

Everyday is a continuous, recurring cycle. 

But Seokjin doesn’t mind those things if it’s done with you. 

[inavagrant-a]

Boops u

♥▶♪♣ !!

♥ - my opinion of their romantic/sexual habits

I honestly think it's great awraxa. A slut in theory but never in practice, good for him awraxawraxa. No but in all seriousness he's really open minded, he's a very passionate lover, but that's a privilege one has to earn, it isn't something he gives out for free or to just anybody. That's a little detail I like about him. He could be calling everybody around him donkeys but if you're that one person for him you are his treasure and he makes that abundantly clear, not just to the person but to everybody else. I think it's a healthy balance of spice and fluff, but that's just me.

▶ - one plot I’ve always wanted to do with them

Would be really cool to explore some timeline where Ei decided to keep him by her side and just where he would end up and what he would become honestly. That would be pretty neat. I'm a fan of what ifs and rp allows for such things.

♪ - a song that makes me think about them

Mr. Rager by Kid Cudi. It's a good song, should pay a listen to it, it's fitting if you take some time and soak in the lyrics of the song.

♣ - hardest thing to “get right�� about playing them

Hmmmm, this is going to sound a bit weird but I want to say his pacing of thought. I love getting into his head, but he's not a single-layered character albeit his goal is quite a single-minded one but there's a lot of factors as to why he's so delusional about that one goal he's so dead-set on. It's never just one thing with him, he doesn't just want the gnosis for power, he doesn't just want the gnosis because it belongs to him, he doesn't just want the gnosis because he wants a heart. There is always layers upon layers upon the single-minded actions he does and obsesses over and a lot of times I feel like I focus too much on one and maybe just tap into the other layer a little bit instead of trying to find a healthy mesh between them all. It's a nack I'm still working out on but other than that I'm honestly having a blast portraying him, he's fun to write especially when I have the opportunity to get him to interact with an array of different sorta of characters and portrayals.

prompt. / @starsdescent

[jamestrmtx]

Fairytale Complex - [Undertale | Sans x Reader]

[Gender Neutral, Frisk's Parent Reader | Slow Burn]

Summary:

The dichotomy between black and white is your constant when it's time for you to meet the whole new civilization Frisk brought along with them to the Surface. As a parent, it's not easy to trust others when they've hurt your child. So when that new civilization decides they owe Frisk both for saving their kind and for still hurting them during that process, you've got plenty to say to them.

Forgive the monsters as easily as you once did with others during a stage of naivety?

Oh, hell no.

They better have a good reason for hurting your child and an even better one for wanting to be a part of their family.

Prologue | Once Upon a Time

[Next]

Finished with a hectic work day, you throw yourself on the couch and beg for it not to give in when you hear it creak. Just as the rest of your home, it's old, worn, and needs replacing. You let out a sigh and bask under what little calm you can find between the worries of a dead-end job and your child recently going missing. 

Many accused the disappearance on your lack of care and overall irresponsibility as their parent, while others blamed it on the myth of monsters existing near the place you suspected they last went to. The first of these assumptions you accepted and blamed yourself constantly for, yet the second of the two was near impossible to even be an option to begin with. Monsters were far away from your village; they were told to be sealed inside the Underground close to Mt. Ebott, and nobody had heard of them in centuries. It was highly unlikely for them to exist there and much less on the Surface, yet there were still some who believed in that myth nonetheless.

Alone in your home, you can only stare at the blank wall before you and think back on the last day you saw Frisk. 

...

"I'm home!" you hear them call, followed by their footsteps thumping against the floorboards.

They make it to the kitchen and throw themselves at you; their arms wrap around your neck and pull you into a hug. Smiling, you return the embrace, pull back to look down, and meet with their eyes. "Did you say goodbye to Auntie Brenda before leaving?" you ask, tucking a stray lock of hair behind their ear. Their bob and bangs had grown longer and many neighbours said it made them look like a girl, but Frisk never minded over those comments and always insisted on keeping their hair that way.

"Yup!" they reply, taking a seat next to yours. "We're… We're gonna spend the whole weekend together, right?" 

"Of course we are, honey." You chuckle upon seeing the worry in their eyes, these holding hope over a positive response on your part. "But first, we've got to study up on History," you add, "Remember you've got a test the day after tomorrow." You pinch their cheek and kiss it better, making them grin and burst into giggles. 

Then, you stand up and head to the living room, where you stop by the bookshelf already covered in a thin layer of dust despite its frequent use. Your eyes scan for the book you'd been recently reading with them, only to find it hidden at a corner, most likely an idea on their part in hopes of delaying their studies for a while. "We'll go over the last chapter. And after that, we can plan what we'll do for the weekend." You turn to them and smile, bumping the book against the top of their head. "But only if you don't try to hide your books away anymore. I know you like school and pay attention all the time, but that still doesn't excuse you from studying up at home."

You walk to the couch, sit down, and see their smile fade away when you open the book to one of its later chapters. It was far away from the one you were currently on, yet based on the look on their face, they seem to know what it's about, an assumption that grows stronger when you remember how one-sided the book in your hands is. Frisk was never fond of the stories it told, yet they never had the courage to go against its written words, either. Now, however, you have a hunch over them about to confront that when you see them frown and later open their mouth to speak up.

"Why do you believe what this book says? It… It says mean things about monsters! Haven't you ever been curious to know what they're all really like?"

You look down at the open book and give some thought to their words. Its borders are worn out and the pages are turning a soft shade of yellow, most likely due to the centuries that'd gone by since it was first published. 'The War Between Us' was its title, yet even though it said 'us', the author was biased at times; in more ways than one. It seemed that the more you analyzed it, the more you regretted having believed these stories when you were younger and having thrashed the possibility of beings like them ever existing. The question you've been given adds to your regret, so you pause and take a quick moment to reconsider.

Deciding it's best to think of a proper response, you flip the pages back to the first chapter and gesture for Frisk to join you. You push your glasses up to the brim of your nose and begin to read the first page.

>> Long ago, two races ruled over the Earth: HUMANS and MONSTERS. One day, war broke out between the two races. After a long battle, the humans were victorious. They sealed the monsters underground with a magic spell...

You flip past the introduction page, having already memorized it ever since you were seven.

>> Those undergrounds, located near Mt. Ebott, are said to be a dangerous place. It is said that those who climb the mountain never return. Many have taken this warning as a joke, yet none have actually dared to step foot on those grounds. Due to this fear of the unknown, many began to form theories as to what happens to those who travel to those lands. These have varied from such a simple thing as being unable or unwilling to leave, to something as dark and fearsome as death.

>> It is said the monsters residing in this place were not only strange in appearance, but in their actions and customs, as well. Likewise, it is said their way of reproduction is also odd, as it is through their SOULS that they may create another life, and that the way of ending their lives is through the same means. Besides showing their vulnerability through their SOULS, they show it through their words. They advise others to show 'MERCY', as well as to 'SPARE' their enemies whenever possible. 

>> However, many experts on the topic have agreed these are only myths; bedtime stories meant to dull and straighten up a child's behaviour, to frighten them over what is black and what is white, and to keep them strictly in the latter. It is impossible to believe such narrow-minded and saint-like creatures ever existed, unless it is to dumb down our mindsets and persuade us to be kind to a fault, without ever even questioning why it is said that those who fell into their world never came back. After all, it is without a doubt unrealistic and near impossible for people to cohabit in one same world without causing some form of hurt between each other. It is the same reason why these creatures were said to lose a war with our kind, and why we must avoid being weak and preachy like them; to prevent the same from ever happening to us.

You close the book with one swift move, deciding you already have the answer to your child's question.

"Y'know, I… I guess you're right, honey." You sigh, face your lap, and close your eyes, already having a taboo thought at the tip of your tongue. "I've only ever read this book regarding their history. If only I knew more about them, or maybe had another book from a new, different perspective... Then, maybe... Maybe I could know if both sides had their reasons for war, and why we still study them through this book only."

Just as they're about to reply, an unintelligible shout erupts from one of the nearby houses. The sound of porcelain hitting the ground and of people arguing with one another can be heard, and soon after, an eerie, yet recognizable silence takes over. Already expecting the worst, you let out a shaky sigh, stand up, and finally gather up courage to inspect what's going on outside the safety of your home.

"Stay here, Frisk. I'll be back soon."

…

You never saw them again after that day, and that was almost a full month ago. Your eyes have turned irredeemably red and puffy from how much you've cried and mourned over their loss, though you've tried to keep it to yourself as much as possible. Even so, a few things had been leaked regarding your situation. Nosy and loud neighbours meant trouble, and you already had enough with Social Services and Frisk's school constantly breathing down your neck.

The more days passed since their disappearance, the more rumours began to revolve around you. A silent argument over the hints left behind of Frisk going missing had begun to form, and it shows itself through the tense state of those around you, these split into two groups. Tension's risen between those who blame you and those who blame Mt. Ebott, yet you don't want to favour either side. Simply solving the situation and having Frisk in your arms again was enough for you, even if they were taken away from you by Social Services the day or even the hour after.

Hearing your stomach growl, you shake your head, finally realizing you're becoming too immersed in your own thoughts.

Dinner wouldn't make itself, and though you hated cooking only for yourself almost as much as you loathed the absence of your child and the silence of your home, you have to stand up, dust off, and keep on going.

Fairy tales weren't real; monsters weren't, either. In other words, Frisk's all alone in the world now and nobody's gonna help besides you. Whatever happened to your child, they were most likely suffering or in great danger, and for once, you can't help but wish over the Underground to be real in spite of the myths told about it. Perhaps then, you could have some sense of direction and an idea over just where Frisk could be; and perhaps then, they wouldn't be alone at the knowledge of monsters providing them with shelter and company until your arrival.

Perhaps then, you could rest a bit easy without crying yourself to sleep every weekend with the reminder and the remnants of a broken promise, one you feared would never be fulfilled.

[Next]

[shitacademicswrite]

Smithsonian Institution, Paleoanthropology Division

Dear [redacted],

Thank you for your latest submission to the Institute, labeled “211-D, layer seven, next to the clothesline post. Hominid skull.” We have given this specimen a careful and detailed examination, and regret to inform you that we disagree with your theory that it represents “conclusive proof of the presence of Early Man in Charleston County two million years ago.” Rather, it appears that what you have found is the head of a Barbie doll, of the variety one of our staff, who has small children, believes to be the “Malibu Barbie”. It is evident that you have given a great deal of thought to the analysis of this specimen, and you may be quite certain that those of us who are familiar with your prior work in the field were loathe to come to contradiction with your findings. However, we do feel that there are a number of physical attributes of the specimen which might have tipped you off to its modern origin:

1. The material is molded plastic. Ancient hominid remains are typically fossilized bone.

2. The cranial capacity of the specimen is approximately 9 cubic centimeters, well below the threshold of even the earliest identified proto hominids.

3. The dentition pattern evident on the “skull” is more consistent with the common domesticated dog than it is with the “ravenous man-eating Pliocene clams” you speculate roamed the wetlands during that time. This latter finding is certainly one of the most intriguing hypotheses you have submitted in your history with the institution, but the evidence seems to weigh rather heavily against it. Without going into too much detail, let us say that:

A. The specimen looks like the head of a Barbie doll that a dog has chewed on.

B. Clams don’t have teeth.

It is with feelings tinged with melancholy that we must deny your request to have the specimen carbon dated. This is partially due to the heavy load our lab must bear in its normal operation, and partly due to carbon dating’s notorious inaccuracy in fossils of recent geologic record. To the best of our knowledge, no Barbie dolls were produced prior to 1956 AD, and carbon dating is likely to produce wildly inaccurate results. Sadly, we must also deny your request that we approach the National Science Foundation’s Phylogeny Department with the concept of assigning your specimen the scientific name “Australopithecus spiff-arino.” Speaking personally, I, for one, fought tenaciously for the acceptance of your proposed taxonomy, but was ultimately voted down because the species name you selected was hyphenated, and didn’t really sound like it might be Latin.

However, we gladly accept your generous donation of this fascinating specimen to the museum. While it is undoubtedly not a hominid fossil, it is, nonetheless, yet another riveting example of the great body of work you seem to accumulate here so effortlessly. You should know that our Director has reserved a special shelf in his own office for the display of the specimens you have previously submitted to the Institution, and the entire staff speculates daily on what you will happen upon next in your digs at the site you have discovered in your back yard. We eagerly anticipate your trip to our nation’s capital that you proposed in your last letter, and several of us are pressing the Director to pay for it. We are particularly interested in hearing you expand on your theories surrounding the “trans-positating fillifitation of ferrous ions in a structural matrix” that makes the excellent juvenile Tyrannosaurus rex femur you recently discovered take on the deceptive appearance of a rusty 9-mm Sears Craftsman automotive crescent wrench.

Yours in Science,

Harvey Rowe

Curator, Antiquities

[tae-cup]

Gouache on Calculators by Kim Taehyung | Calcu-LATER (1)

Pairing: Art Major!Kim Taehyung x Math Major!Reader, Jimin x reader-ish

Summary:  Math never fails you. The numbers might not always make sense, but you know there must be a solution. Everything fits together like a perfect puzzle, like your tidy life and solitary living…until Kim Taehyung spills paint all over your notebook. He, quite literally, trips into your life.

Genre: College AU, Fluff, Angst, Angst with happy ending, Light Topics, humor

Rating: Teen

Warnings: Uh, it’s not this dark i swear,  slight Internalized homophobia, Drinking, Cheating, uh uh uh it’s going to be a ride.

Word Count: 2.7k Words

A/N: Ah! I’m so excited to present this absolute mess of a story! Let me know your thoughts and if you’d like to be added to the taglist! Also also also, this chapter is short, but I promise the next one is a little over twice this length!

Other: 

Series List

Masterlist

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       Mr. Erich was a slow talker. You could almost understand why Jimin was falling asleep next to you. Almost. Jimin wasn’t someone you really considered a close friend, but then again, you didn’t have many close friends. 

      The teacher continued droning on about number theory. You placed your head down on the desk, but your hand continued writing your notes. Staying up late last night wasn’t the best idea, but you needed to write an essay on Anaxagoras, a greek philosopher. 

     You hated philosophy. But you loved your mother and your mother had urged you to take a class that didn’t only involve numbers. 

     Jimin was snoring peacefully and you glanced over at him. It wasn’t exactly your issue so you looked away and went back to following the lesson. A few minutes later, he jerked awake and groaned audibly.

      A few people in the seats around looked at him quizzically. You shrunk lower in your seat. You didn’t want to attend class, too many people and it made your heart race, but you needed to pass this class and so you, sadly, must attend.

        Many knew Jimin as the son and heir to BigHit, the large business conglomerate that had wealth that made even the 1% drool, but to you he was just that guy who fell asleep in Calculus and cheated off your notes. Objectively, this was annoying. Subjectively…

     You felt him staring out of the corner of your eye. He was looking pointedly at your notes. Subjectively, you didn’t care enough. If he didn’t pay attention in class, that was his problem and you didn’t feel one way or another. At the bottom of your notes, you wrote, Pay attention. 

He wrote that down too without a second thought. 

   You were busy. You were always busy. In fact, you had an extremely important Algebra assignment to do and you knew you could get it done as long as no one bothered you-

“Oh my god.” 

    A man with blonde hair and a light blue beret stood in front of you. In his hands was a tray of spilled over paints; paints that were now on you. You tilted your head. 

“Can you move?” You spoke up after a while. 

“I’m so sorry!” He seemed unfrozen and hurried after you as you brushed by. 

“Uh, can you go away?” 

“I know you’re probably really mad! Do you want money or something? I can buy you new clothes or-wait that sounds weird.” 

“Clothes?” You glanced down and then realized the state of your wardrobe. 

    You were splattered with red, green, and yellow paint. You then glanced at your notebooks, also, helpfully, coated in a thin layer of paint. More importantly, your beautiful TI-84 calculator was ruined. 

     You opened your mouth, furiously holding up your calculator, but the man continued rambling on. Annoying. But somewhat entertaining, you supposed. 

“You got paint on my-” 

“Let me take you out! Somewhere nice? I’ll buy you a coffee!” He tore off some notebook paper and scribbled some numbers down. You paused. What was he doing? 

“Besides, it’s not paint, it’s Gouache.” He announced proudly, shoving the paper into your already full arms. 

“But that- you still got-”

“Taehyung!” Jimin called from behind you. You turned and the man winced. “Oh, Taehyungie has never been too neat, sorry about him. Anyway, we gotta go, Tae. Yoongi just called and Jungkook set fire to the carpet again.” 

“He really needs to change his major to something a little less dangerous.” 

“What is this, the third time?”

“I don’t know, but we need to go, Tae-”

“What’s his major?” You questioned.

“Philosophy.” They both said in unison. 

“Anyway gotta go!” Taehyung grabbed Jimin’s hand and started speed walking away. 

“You got paint on my calcu-”

“Later!” Jimin shouted over his shoulder, his eyes lingered on you for a moment.

    Did you have something on your face? You swiped at your cheek and he grinned, turning back around and following Taehyung.

    Once they were out of sight, you juggled your notebooks around until you could successfully pick up the paper. 278-367-5433 ;). You scoffed at the numbers, something you did often, and crumpled it up. 

“Art majors. What a waste of trees” You muttered and trudged back to your dorm. 

 “I’m so stuck on this problem, Y/N, you’ve gotta help me.” 

“Why?” 

“Because you’re my friend?”

“I’m not your friend, Jimin.” You moved the phone to your other shoulder and continued working. 

“But-”

“Bye.” 

      You hung up and groaned, massaging your temple. Your room could be seen as lonely. Plain white paint sat on dull gray walls. There wasn’t a speck of trash or clothing littered on the floor. You lived an orderly life. Tidy. Your eyes strayed to your hamper. 

      Your clothes from earlier were spilling out of the top. A splash of color on a black and white canvas. You scrunched your nose and looked away in disgust. You had never understood the point of art. What did anyone ever see in it? It was meaningless. You looked back to your notes. 

      These numbers meant something. They meant the height of a ladder leaning against a building, the measurements of a bridge, and where Mary Jane would end up in 400 minutes if she’s going five miles an hour on a circular road. It was pretty deep. 

      You looked at your watch. Then you moved your attention to the window. Your dorm overlooked the sprawling center of campus. The place was a concrete playground, but with the extensive arts program, it was always covered in colorful murals and art pieces. 

       You didn’t have a roommate and you liked it that way. You had always preferred to be alone. Others called you anti-social, but, to put it another way, if there was an apocalypse and it was just you and another person alive in the entire world, you would probably leave them for dead. Life was simpler alone. 

       Besides, you wouldn’t have to deal with people chastising you about not picking up on “social cues” or whatever the hell those were. How were you supposed to know that when someone leans in real close, they want to kiss you? It seemed quite arbitrary in your mind. 

      Your phone was buzzing again. 

“What do you want?” 

“Please Y/N! This. Is. Really. Hard.” 

“Jimin, figure it out. How are you going to pass midterms if you can’t understand algebra?” 

“Ouch.”

“I mean that in the most sincere way.” You relented. 

“You’re so mean, Y/N.”

   Your eyebrows rose. That certainly wasn’t the first time you’d heard those words. 

“I’m honest. You could go ask the teacher or something.”

“He told me to ask you.”

“That doesn’t sound right.”

You heard him let out a dry laugh on the other side and rustling of sheets. 

“You’re really good at math, Y/N.”

“I hate number theory.” You objected. 

“But that doesn’t mean you’re not good at it!” 

“Shut up. I’m going to hang up now.” 

“Wait no-”

Beep. 

     People were annoying. That’s what you had decided. You weren’t trying to stick out like a sore thumb, but getting in the flow of other people and understanding all the shit they wanted you to understand was hard. 

     You put your pencil back down onto the page and continued writing. You reached for your calculator, groaning when you realized the paint had covered the display. 

“Great. Just great.” 

      You set the calculator aside, feeling a little sentimental. After all, you’d had that thing since seventh grade. Your phone buzzed again. Jimin jesus chr-

“Yes?” You picked up. 

“What is this So ka toe ah everyone is telling me about.”

“How did you pass trig without sohcahtoa?” 

“Tell me!” 

“Ask Taehyung.”

“Taehyung is an art major and hasn’t had to be proficient in math since the fifth grade!” 

“Sin, cosine, tan. Bye.” 

Beep. 

     You massaged the crease between your eyebrows and your attention got caught by the darkened campus. The gross fluorescent campus lights lit up the concrete. Freshmen were running wild, happy with their newfound freedom, and seniors were leaving for clubs or parties. The lights in the dorm buildings across campus began turning on one by one. 

     You searched your pockets for the crumpled paper. When you didn’t find any, you made your way to your hamper and dug around the pockets of your paint smothered clothing. 

“Aha.” You unfolded the paper and dialed the number. You didn’t feel like talking, but Jimin was driving you up the wall. 

“Taehyung, right?” You said as he picked up. 

“Yeah? Changed your mind?”

“No. I’m going to make this short and sweet, tell Jimin to stop calling me for math help. Thanks.” You hung up and went back to your work. 

     So, technically, you were done with work, but being done with work meant that you were free and if you were free, that meant you had no excuse not to go out. And you needed an excuse to avoid people. You opened up your textbook and frowned at the various graphs and equations. You had already done all of them for fun this summer. 

“Hey, Y/N, a bunch of us in the dorm are going out, wanna come?” The hall monitor knocked on your door. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be doing your job?” You looked back with a confused expression. 

“Charming as ever I see.” She chuckled. 

“Come on, Jasmine, Y/N never wants to go out anyway.” Another girl shouted. 

“I know! I just wanted to be nice!” Jasmine shouted out, as if you weren’t right there. 

“What would be nice is if you left.” You said, your voice monotone and matter of fact. 

“Alright then. If you need anything, just text or call.”

“You won’t pick up anyway.” You whispered under your breath, but Jasmine was already gone. 

 “You forgot that this has to be positive, Jimin.” You leaned over him like an overbearing mother. 

���But that doesn’t make sense!”

“You’re dividing two negatives. They cancel out.” You explained, a frown twisting onto your face. 

       There was a long silence as you watched him scribble down the new numbers. The library was relatively quiet. The giggles of a group in the corner would pierce the peaceful ambience every now and then, but the librarian would always shush them and they’d die down. 

     Jimin cleared his throat, pulling your attention back to this study session. You moved across the table and sat at your seat again. You just sat and stared at him. He was intriguing. He made silly mistakes that he should honestly understand for being a junior in college. His eyes flicked up to you three times and back to his paper. 

“Well, this is awkward.” He said after a while. 

“Is it?” You shrugged and continued staring him in the eye. He shifted awkwardly and looked away. 

“Why are you staring at me?” He whispered. 

“Oh, do you want me to stop?” 

His mouth opened and closed then he looked back at his paper, his ears turning red. 

“Are you coming on to me?” He murmured. 

“What? No, why would I do that?” You said, disgusted, and returned to your work. 

       To be clear, you weren’t disgusted with him, but you were disgusted at the idea that you would come onto him. After all, you were just here for math and Jimin was just here because he needed help studying, obviously. He looked like you had just slapped him. You honestly didn’t see an issue. 

“You know, my parents are pretty traditional and they want me to bring a girl home this holiday season. You’re the only girl I’m really close friends with.” He began. You felt his eyes on you and you looked up. 

“Uh, alright? That sounds like a problem. Who are you going to take then?”

“You’re really dense, aren’t you?”

“I’m not dense.” You defended. “You need to expand your friend group.” 

“I was wondering if you could come along?”

“What?” Your furrowed your eyebrows. “Absolutely not.”

“It wouldn’t be anything romantic, just-” 

    A man with mint green hair and a slim build walked past and Jimin’s eyes followed him. You followed his line of sight. 

“....We can just go as friends, you know?” 

You nodded solemnly. “Just friends, Jimin.”

“You’ll go?”

“Only if you promise me it’s just friends because I really don’t want to have to deal with romance.” You huffed, picking up your pencil and jotting down numbers. “You already have my number, just send me the details.”

“Thank you!” 

      The librarian shot him a glare and he lowered his voice. 

“You’re a real lifesaver.” He whispered. 

“I know.” You narrowed your eyes and then began to pack up your things. “I’ve got a lot of stuff to do. Bye.” 

“What, but we just-” 

“Yeah I know, but I’m sort of sick of talking to people and I helped you with your work so I’ve got to go work on Philosophy.” 

“Philosophy? I didn’t take you as a philosophy person.”

“Me neither.”

     Aha! You knew you recognized Taehyung from somewhere. You ran your finger over the screen. The list of student names in your philosophy class was displayed. 

“Kim Taehyung. KTaehyung24@WillowsUniversity.edu.” You murmured 

“Whatcha doing?” Jasmine leaned against your doorway. 

“Just...research.” You explained lamely. 

“I see.” The hall monitor came inside and sat on your bed. “You never go out, Y/N. I’m worried about you.” 

“Okay, and?” You glanced at her as she sat cross legged on the bed. Great. She’s wrinkling the sheets. 

“Well, as a friend-”

“We’re not friends.”

“-and hall monitor, I command that you go out this weekend. Do something with your college life. I think you might regret not doing anything fun later on.” She prodded softly. 

“This is fun.” You gestured to the scattered math homework pages across the desk. 

“Right… well, just keep it in mind.” She stood and moved to your door. 

“Jasmine?”

“Yeah?” She paused, turning to look at you. You read over your philosophy work and then your essay.

“You ever think that there are so many people in your life, but no one is really a part of it?”

“You’ve got to stop with the philosophy, Y/N. It feels weird coming from you.” She laughed.

       You didn’t find anything funny in that. She looked awkwardly from you to the door, expecting you to chuckle along, but you remained silent, blinking at her. She shivered and left without another word. 

      The second she was gone, you stood abruptly and smoothed out the bed sheets, but as you did that, more wrinkles appeared on the other side. You felt the anxiety pouring out of you and you rushed to smooth down the other side, but more and more wrinkles kept appearing like disgusting bugs that wouldn’t die. You let out a frustrated sigh and tore all the sheets off your bed. 

       You took the ruler off your desk and measured out the width and height, then calculated how much extra cloth is needed on both sides for it to be perfectly centered. Then you marked it off and remade the bed. You felt yourself calming as order was restored. 

    You thought back to Jasmine’s words. Go out? Absolutely not. Then you looked at the crumpled paper on your desk. 

“Fine, Jasmine.” You pursed your lips and dialed the number once more. 

“Y-ello?” Taehyung’s voice rumbled through the speaker. 

“I want a coffee, but I’d prefer to go somewhere quiet.”

“Straight to the point I see.”

“Polite niceties take up too much time. When are you available?” “Whenever you are, love.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Alright. Uh…” There was a long pause and you heard rustling in the background. “Sorry just grabbing a piece of paper.”

“Why are you apologizing? There’s nothing to apologize for.” You said quickly, eager to get this conversation over with. 

“I’m free this Saturday?” 

“Works for me.” You said. You didn’t need to check your calendar to know you had nothing to do. 

“Great see you then.” He said stiffly.

“Yup.”

“Uh...bye?”

“Alright.” 

Beep. 

      Now it was time to overthink the arrangement until Saturday.

Taglist: N/A

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[crowleyellestair]

The Point- Witcher Lambert OS

Warnings: mention of blood, injury and swearing

Summary: Y/n wakes up after suffering a wound in the heat of battle, and her lover, Lambert hadn’t been handling it well

 AN// Welcome to the idea of a 3 am, sleep deprived brain

When Y/n woke up, it wasn’t a jostling scene. At first, she blinked softly, then rubbed her eyes as she usually did when she woke up. The last thing she remembered was crystal clear, though she was highly aware that much time has passed. She knew moving wasn’t going to be easy, as her last thoughts had only been about Lambert and how lucky she was to have enough adrenaline to not feel the gaping hole through her chest.

The room she was in was quite familiar, as it was the one she shared with Lambert at Kaer Morhen. When she had first made a home with him there, the room had been bare. Eskel had stacks of books, practically making a labyrinth of text, never knowing how to get to his bed. Geralt had small trophies and nick-knacks from grateful contractors who didn’t necessarily have enough to pay, yet were still grateful. The young witcher had said it was because he had never wanted to have to lug items around till winter, though she knew it was deeper than that. When she had moved in, he had a single item that showed life was present, and it was a small plant near the window. He had said it was to make the place ‘lively’ so she would feel comfortable. There still wasn’t much in it, but there had been notebooks on the new desk he had built, and clothes usually disorganized throughout the closet. One plant had become three, and there were portraits amateurly hung over the mantle of the small fireplace.

Now, all of those small things that made it their own, were strewn everywhere. Two of the smaller plants had their pots smashed and the leaves wilting. The fireplace had charred stains outlining the hearth, as if someone continuously casted Igni into it. The papers where strewn everywhere, laying on the floor next to the clothes that seemed to be hastily ripped from the closet. There was a chair next to the bed, blankets layered over the back.

Worry and comfort both flooded through her as she knew Lambert was the chair’s previous occupant. The questions though, that sent ice through her veins, pertained to where he was and why their room is in such a state.  While knowing that a larger amount of time had passed, it was hard to approximate. The leaves were wilting, which meant Lambert probably hadn’t watered them since their return. If the plants, happily named Sir Green Leaf and Planty, had only wilted, it seems she might not have been out long.

The woman’s eyes dart to the opposite end of the room where the door opens. She had yet to see who was behind the door, but she knew by the lack of rush that no one knew she was awake. Eskel walked through the door, putting the broom he had in hand down, and propped against the wall. His hands fly over the papers and journals on the ground, being gentle, yet quick enough as to not be able to read anything. It brought a small smile to Y/n, knowing that Eskel wouldn’t break their trust, even if now would seem like the most opportune time. The witcher straightened his back, placing what he had collected back onto the desk.

“Not snooping?” She had a grin and a sarcastic tone, but both were wiped away after she heard how gravelly and rough it was. Eskel’s head snapped to look at her, and a smile spread over him. He swiftly made it to the bed, grabbing the waterskin on the floor.

“Through your stuff? The only info I’d have to gain from that is theories on medicine.” Despite her voice, she was excited to see her brother.

“At least I have some. I know Dandelion loved the place, but those medical professors are doing Jack-all to try and fight terminal illnesses. I mean, really, we already have headache medication, we don’t need a new strain.” Eskel’s smile never fell, and only grew when his hand fell to her shoulder.

“This is why I didn’t snoop to begin with.” Y/n smiled back, then looked to herself. Her favorite fur had been thrown over her torso, so she had yet to see the damage. Her eyes flicked back to the witcher she had considered a big brother since falling in love with the youngest in the wolf pack.

“Would you mind helping me sit?” Eskel’s face fell, and his brow scrunched. His hand flew over his scars, immediately telling her how uneasy he truly was with it.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” Y/n’s hand grasped the fur, holding it up to peak at herself. If anyone could decide her state, it could be her as a medical professional.

Her shirt had been rolled up to rest just under her breast, giving her a great view of the wound on her lower abdomen. She remembered being with Lambert when he had to fight with some Giant centipedes. One time, he had thrown the bomb and it landed right into the hole the worm receded into, and the explosion was massive. Dirt debris flew everywhere, and it was much like how her wound looked. There was the initial puncture wound of the large lance that had flew through her like butter. Then, there seemed to be a second cut made, presumably when the handle broke while the weapon was still lodged in her side. It seemed that there were extra cuts made from the initial wound, probably due to whoever operated on her. The edge to every cut made was ragged and there were remnants of stitches from before the new set she now dawned. The impact was on her lower right side, but bruising painted her whole chest. The cuts were red and puffy, but it seemed that there was a very watchful eye on it, and the stiches were beautifully done to allow some movement.

“It will be fine. It’s doing nicely.” Eskel let out a shaky breath, but placed a hand on her lower back and upper chest, trying to force her to keep herself straight as she sat. Once he helped her slide, and rest against the headboard, he looked to the door.

“I should go tell Lambert. He’ll be upset I didn’t rush to get him sooner.” The medic rolled her eyes and huffed.

“He won’t have a chance to. Planty and Sir Green Leaf deserve an apology first.” Eskel’s lip twitched, but the grin didn’t last.

“The room was an accident, by the way. Geralt had been worried about him, and it had been about a week since Lambert truly left this room. He dragged him out of here only an hour ago, and he didn’t go without a fight. Though, I’m sure you’ll be grateful,” his smile finally returning. “As he smelled worse than the stables after Dandelion forgot to clean it last year.” Now it was Y/n failing to return the smile. Her hand gently reached out and grasped his, giving a small squeeze. The action carried a lot from thanks to worry.

“Would you mind getting him for me?” He gave a nod and headed to the door. Her hands flew to the wound feeling a small ache. She knew she had a numbing agent on it, or she would be in immense pain, but it seems that shifting started a reaction and her body started to release fluids. Gently, she called out knowing the brunette would still hear even in the hall. “Would you also bring a bowl of water and fresh bandages, please?”

One would be alarmed by how calm Y/n has been. Though, Y/n was above all grateful to have opened her eyes, and could see no reason to make a big deal of it. There had been an attack on the fort. The witchers and some allies had to migrate back to Kaer Morhen in early autumn to try and help Dandelion. There had been a large price on his head, and the poet was apart of the family, no one was to harm him. A large militia of hired swordsman had attacked, though had been defeated. Y/n, despite being told to stay by Triss and Yen, decided she wouldn’t leave Lambert’s side. She had walked the path with him for years, and the two fought in tandem. There had been a group that flooded the back path where the two had been held, and she noticed the lancer before him. Knowing the casting time of Quen, she knew Lambert wouldn’t be able to throw it in time. Y/n hastily threw herself against the witcher, who casted the shield as he felt her body. It had been too late, and he knew it the moment he felt the tip of a lance on his hip. The weapon had speared through her so far that it still scathed the man. The shield had broken the handle, splintering the lance, and making her would worse. In that moment, Y/n had decided that Lambert was more important than she was, though she knew it was also selfish, as she wouldn’t be able to live without him. Being awake new has just been a blessing.

Fast footfalls could be heard bouncing off the halls. There had been a moment where the sounds had faltered, and a loud curse followed. The running started back up, and moments later, Lambert slid into the room, out of breath. It seems that he had just been in the hot spring, only a pair of unlaced trousers being donned. Steam rolled off of his skin, and his hair dripped everywhere. He had been panting, and his eyes were frantic- more frantic than she had ever seen them. Large bags fell under his eyes and his lips looked pale, and those were the only attributes she could use to tell how he hadn’t been treating himself properly.

He pushed himself to the bed once they had made eye contact, though he stopped himself moments before wrapping himself around her. His hands flew to hers, pulling both to his mouth, his eye closing, and letting out a shaky breath.

“Lambert.” He let out another breath, but his eyes remained closed. Her fingers griped his, pulling his hands closer. Y/n dropped her tone to a whisper, and seeing him so broken started to affect her. “Lambert, look at me.” Eyes that she knew were made of the sun peered up at her, glass covering the relieved gaze. “Please hold me.” The young witcher’s gaze flew to her stomach and he gave a small shake of his head.

“I don’t think that’s-.”

“You can either hold me, or I can start lecturing you on how you haven’t been taking care of yourself.” His brow raised and she gave a fond sigh. “I’ve been resting. It’s not like I’ve forgotten how to read you, and trust me, I have a few words.”

“A few words, huh?”

“Yes.” Lambert huffed, yet he still crowed her into the headboard. Only their shoulders were pressed together, but his arms tightened themselves as much as he thought was safe. His nose pressed itself into its usual spot under her ear, and that’s where he remained as his body started to shake. She could feel the wetness of his tears start prickling her skin.

“I actually have a few fucking words, Y/n.” She could feel him start to fist her rolled shirt.

“I-.”

“No. What you did was unforgivable.” There was a long moment where nothing was said, and the only movement was the man’s sharp intakes of breath and Y/n’s thumb moving in small circles.

“Letting you get hurt would be unforgivable.”

“I would have been fine. You, on the other hand, have been laying here. There were times…” He took a long breath. His tone hardened, but was still quiet. “Y/n, there were times where I thought your heart stopped. Hell, I think it did the second day.”

“My heart would have stopped if yours did.”

“And what would I have done?” His voice grew in volume, and his arms held on just a little tighter. “Centuries? Without you?”

“You wouldn’t be without me. You have my heart and soul.”

“And you have mine. Don’t you get that? I can’t live without you here. You are the only thing in this world that keeps me going.”

“That’s not true. You have the rest of our family here.”

“What was the thing you said before I asked you to move in?” Y/n smiled at the memory.

“You mean told me to move in.”

“What was it?” Lambert pulled away, his hands moving to cup her neck. His eyes were torn between sorrow and love.

“What’s the point of going on if you can’t enjoy it.”

[highsviolets]

of hyperdrives & hands: engineer!reader x obi-wan

summary: you’re fixing the hyperdrive on the Negotiator when a mysterious being pays you a visit.

word count: I honestly have no idea bc i wrote this whole thing on my notes app in the car lmao. (sorry if the formatting is weird/there are typos!!)

rating: G. but also, this is basically a love letter to Ewan McGregor’s gorgeous hands.

A/N: fulfilling a request for the lovely @aty-cgca7! ily, chasity! I hope it’s everything you were looking for 💖 also I know nothing about engineering or computers or hyperdrives so don’t come for me y’all 😂

of hyperdrives & hands, a fic by corellians-only

Brow furrowed in concentration, you squint in the hazy light. Reaching up to your forehead with your left hand, you slide your fingers across the surface of your skin, batting away renegade wisps of hair that had fallen away from your bun.

Maker, but it was warm down here, in the maw of this behemoth ship. You curse softly to yourself as a bead of sweat hovered perilously close to your eyelash, threatening to obscure your vision as you strain to locate the loose wire that had sent you onto the Negotiator in the first place. Hadn’t your father always warned your that space was cold? When you told him you had joined the Civilian Engineer Corps to help with the war effort, he had even cracked a joke about adding extra layers to your uniform.

You frown. Clearly, accomplished pilot though he was, you father had never been in the hyperdrive control center of a Republic Venator-class Star Destroyer.

Catching your distraction, you shake your head. No. You needed to focus. Now was not the time to question your father’s supposed space travel wisdom. There’s a job to be done. Hyperdrives did not fix themselves.

There she is. Rather than simply becoming disconnected, the wire had split in two, snapping under the pressure from the processing core directly above the unit. This was going to be more complicated than you thought.

For a few hours, the only sounds that filled the room were soft snip of wirecutters and the gentle thrum of the engines. As you start re-routing the stray wire, your mind begins to wander.

You had heard stories about Star Destroyers with entire hangers of processing cores for the shields alone. That their nav computers were the most accurate in the galaxy. That their holo encryption system was unbreakable (it wasn’t. You had written and sliced a viral code into their data key a few standard months back, just to see if you could). This was your first time on such a warship when it was in space, and while it was impressive, at the end of the day, it ran like any other ship.

Tali had been even aboard General Secura’s flagship, the Liberty, for a supply dump once and she swore that their weapons systems were the most flawless thing she had ever seen - barring General Kenobi, of course, she had added with an impish grin tossed your way.

Your not-so-subtle crush on the dashing General was an open secret among your platoon of female engineers. Most of them assumed it was because he was pretty and famous — he was on nearly every holomag cover, after all — but you knew better. You knew he was a good man. His hands told you so.

The first time you had seen General Kenobi, you had been playing in the undercity of Coruscant when a boy a little older than yourself had stopped to ask what you were building with the rubble left behind from an explosion caused by the nascent Black Sun cartel a few days earlier.

“I don’t know,” you had responded belligerently, upset at your endeavors having been interrupted - and by a boy, no less. “Why do you have a braid in your hair?” you continued. “I thought only girls had braids.”

The boy had adjusted his stance to stand up taller. “I’m going to be a Jedi,” he proclaimed. “I’m Obi-Wan,” he offered with a smile. His eyes flashed suddenly, and with a quick thrust, his hand extended into the dusty air. A sheet of durasteel that had been hovering precariously at the tip of the heap was now suspended in midair, mere centimeters from crashing down on your head. Even in the grim half-light of the slums, you could see sapphire eyes earnestly fixed on the hunk of metal. Strong, lithe fingers gestured gracefully. The object fell with a great crash a few meters away.

You could only stare in awe.

The faint sound a male voice calling had caused him to twist his head and listen. “I have to go.” He frowned. “Master Qui-Gon is calling me. I hope I see you again some day.”

He bowed slightly, then turned and trotted back toward his Master.

You had never been quite able to forget the teenager with pretty hands who had saved your life.

Nearly two decades later, you had seen him again. You and Tali had been sipping cups of caf before your shifts in the makeshift mess hall of a personnel loading area when you sensed his presence. Not in a Jedi way - you didn’t have a lick of Force sensitivity, you knew - but in the way you noticed that everyone seemed to speak a little softer and trail their eyes after the passing figure in white armor.

He had strode past the the two of you, hardly sparing a glance at two female civilian engineers and pointedly ignoring the sheer weight of the gazes trained on him. Later, over a pint of lomin ale, Tali has raved about his hair, and how “he had a shoulder to hip ratio that was sharper than a vibroblade, didn’t you notice?”

You had taken a sip of your drink and laughed good-naturedly at Tali’s antics. You had noticed him, to be sure, but you had been transfixed by his hands, not his muscles.

Back in the days before the war, when you were still a little girl, your father Aves had always told you to take note of a being’s hands. In the present moment, you smile as you refit the access panel on the hyper drive’s core reactor as a the memory comes to mind.

Even though he was a good father, Aves had been a man of mystery. Whatever it was he did for a living, it had blessed him with an intimate knowledge of guns, starships, and computers, and he had passed everything he knew on to his “blazing sun,” he used to call you affectionately.

“Blazing sun,” he would instruct you, “you can tell a lot about a being by their hands.” When he was satisfied he had captured your attention, the impression of a smile glowed across his face. He resumed cleaning his carbine rifle as he spoke, his voice low and smooth. “You can tell a lot about a being by their hands,” he intoned again. “Their trade. Their social class. How they hold a weapon. What kind of weapons they use. If they can pilot a ship. If their mind is focused or skittish.” The tall man had shrugged gently, an action that seemed counterintuitive to the grade A contraband blaster now resting comfortably in his expert grip. A new power pack slapped into place with a precise snap. “If you ever want to know someone” — he tucked a stray hair behind your ear tenderly, the other hand still clutching the blaster — “look at their hands.”

You begin tapping out routine codes on the core reactor to test the replacement wire. The various combinations of letters and numbers in basic and binary were muscle memory, and you stared in awe as your own fingers punch in the digits seemingly of their own volition.

Yes, it was General Kenobi’s hands that most enraptured you, you decided. Slender, calloused (you supposed - not that you had ever had the pleasure of testing that theory for yourself), extensions of strong, well muscled arms that indicated a strong degree over his motions. He had held them so softly at his sides that day in the mess hall. They had gestured animatedly as he walked alongside a clone commander, a graceful arc to his movements that made you think he would be a good dancer — or a formidable fighter.

The klaxon of an alarm drives you from your reverie. “Oh, kriff.” The latest code you had entered seemed to have caused the wires to short circuit, tripping an internal safety alarm.

“Kriff, kriff, kriff.” You continue to swear violently as you all but run over to the central computer console and entering a code to kick-start a program to halt the shrieking din. Within the minutes, the alarm bells stop, and you sag against the console in relief.

“Is something the matter?” a rich tenor voice asks from behind you.

Immediately you tense. In a singular, practiced motion, you pivot on your left heel and whip your blaster into your right hand simultaneously, turning to face the voice in a fighting stance.

“Freeze!” you call into the shadows. Your eyes scan the cavernous room methodically before settling on a spot a few meters in from the doorway where the light seems distorted. You take aim with your blaster.

“Justice, freedom, faith,” the disembodied voice replies calmly from the same spot.

Your eyes narrow. Whoever the being was, they had given the correct password. But the upper-class Coruscanti accent didn’t belong to anyone in your platoon, and who else would be prowling around the underbelly of General Kenobi’s flagship? There had been faint rumors of a lightsaber wielding Separatist operative. Maybe they were coming to sabotage the ship? Well, not on your watch.

“Step into the light,” you order, durasteel edging into your voice. “Keep your hands above your head.” The contours of the blaster are cool, comforting in your grip, soothing the blood rushing just beneath the surface.

A tall auburn-haired man steps into the light, arms raised. “Will this suffice?” he asked wryly, amusement playing across his features as you feel shock and embarrassment creep up your neck and onto your cheeks.

Stars above. I almost shot General Kenobi. A thousand thoughts race through your mind faster than light speed - some witty, some pragmatic.

But of course, what slips out is neither of those.

“Fierfek, you startled me,” you manage to spit out instead. It’s only your steel will that prevents you from collapsing from embarrassment on the spot. Feigning nonchalance you decidedly do not feel about almost murdering a war hero and childhood crush, you holster your weapon and turn back to the console.

“I gathered as much,” he returns, amusement still coloring his tone.

The room fell silent for a few moments as you run system diagnostics.

“What is it you’re working on?” This time, he’s so near you can feel the heat of his breath on the back of your neck. Well honed reflexes are faster than your brain, though, and it isn’t until you feel a gentle pressure on your elbow that you realize it’s raised to jab him in the throat.

General Kenobi’s chuckle seems to fill the room. “Are you sure you aren’t trying to kill me?” he murmurs. A shiver runs up your spine despite yourself and you feel your stomach start to coil.

You stare at the data steaming on the console until your eyesight begins to blur. “That depends. Are you trying to kill me, sir?” Maker, but you were mouthy today. What was wrong with you?

Kenobi releases your arm dropping his to his side. Immediately, you feel bereft somehow with the loss of his touch.

Peering over your shoulder, he asks, “hyperdrive problems?”

Kriff, does that man not realize what he is doing to you, muttering in your ear like that? Of course he doesn’t, you dolt, you tell yourself; he’s a Jedi. Not his fault you’ve had a crush on him since you were nearly eight years old.

“A replacement wire short-circuited the system and triggered an emergency code,” you respond as evenly as you can manage. A fresh sweat breaks out across your forehead as another complex code dances across the screen.

“What code is that?” He reaches out as though he could absorb the masses of data contained in the system through osmosis. Maybe he can. You’re not a Jedi.

The movement serves a different purpose for you. Something wet and bright glistens as his hand moves into the blue light of the console.

“You’re bleeding.”

He glances down and grimaces. “It’s nothing. Just a scratch.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Doesn’t look like it to me.” Blood is starting to gather around an incision slashed across his right hand.

He opens his mouth to retort no doubt, but you beat him to it. “Don’t give me that bantha dung about Jedi business.” A grease stained finger jabs in the direction of his chest.

Kenobi’s face remains impassive. When he doesn’t respond, you roll your eyes, and, tugging at his elbow, drag him over to the glow lamp near your workstation.

He continues to scrutinize you, and you look down at yourself, wondering what he’s staring at. Your coverall sleeves are rolled up, there’s sweat gathering at your collarbone, and you feel the grimy mixture of dust and stale perspiration coating your face. You’re a hot mess if there ever was one.

Resolutely, you ignore the flush on your cheeks and the steel of his gaze and rummage for a bandage in the care pack attached to your hip. Several excruciating seconds later you find one and tear it open.

It’s when you’re grasping his hand in one of yours the he finally speaks. “I’ve seen you before.”

His cool composure inspires a sudden flash of irritation. “You seem rather certain sir,” you say as you apply a bacta salve.

“Because I am,” he responds mildly. His hand grips yours tightly when you apply the bandage, and you almost asphyxiate on the spot. You were right — his hands are calloused.

“Well, consider this your repayment from saving a girl from durasteel in the Coruscant under-levels about twenty years ago,” you answer with a quick smile. It’s hard to be angry when Obi-Wan Kenobi is in effect, holding your hand.

Reluctantly you release him from your grasp, letting your hand drift down to your side.

The General inclines his head in thanks, then glances back at the computer. “Is the hyperdrive fixed, then?”

You nod, stuffing supplies back into your pack. “I modified the code and replaced the wire so it should be okay.” You meet his eyes. “I’ll be with the ship until it returns to Coruscant, so if there any problems I’ll be available to assist, sir.”

You turn to leave, but he reaches out and catches your hand. “And who do I have to thank for such diligent caretaking of both my ship and my hand?” he inquires. His touch is like satin against your dirty hands and you grin in spite of it.

You consider for a moment. “A blazing sun,” you tell him.

You smile as you make your back to your quarters. Yes, you could tell a lot about a person by their hands.

[thiswasinevitableid]

68 from the winter prompt list seems Very sternclay and I would love to see your take on it, nsfw if it fits would be great too, thank you!!!

Here you go, it is indeed NSFW!

68. you’re obsessed with my homemade soup that I serve at my cafe and I’m too embarrassed to tell you that I’ve only been trying out new recipes to see you get excited for the soup of the day

Stern tries to avoid being rude in public, or in general, really. But right now he’s wondering if he can get away with shoving his face into this soup bowl and licking out the bottom. The food at Amnesty Lodge has always been stellar, but lately the soups are the highlight of his day.

Reluctantly, he leaves the last delicious dregs at the bottom of the blue ceramic bow and heads to the counter to pay his bill.

“How was everything?” Dani rings him up with a smile. 

“Incredible. I swear, Barclay out does himself every time I come.”

“Great! I’ll tell him you said so. I know he loves getting feedback on new recipes.”

-------------------------

“You did not say that.” Barclay drags the rag down the counter top. 

“Okay, so I didn’t add ‘especially from guys who he thinks are hot,’you got me.” She smirks as she clocks out. 

“It’s not my fault he’s so cute when he gets excited about food.”

“Barclay, just ask him out already.”

“But he’s a customer!”

“Who you also see once a week at game night at Duck’s. He’s for sure in friend territory at this point.”

“She’s got a point. Besides, sometimes flirting with customers ends well.” Aubrey leans against the kitchen door, twirling her car keys and winking at her girlfriend, “right, honey?”

“Absolutely, firebug.” Dani loops her arm around Aubrey’s waist, then levels Barclay with the look that routinely makes people mistake her for his little sister, “ask him out, or I am going to leave your number on his check the next time he comes in.”

“Okay, okay” He holds up his hands, chuckling, “you win.”

He waves goodnight, finishes locking up once the two women are gone. Then he climbs the stairs home. Amnesty Lodge was a real lodge, once upon a time. But as the city grew and buildings were divided and repurposed, only the restaurant and the rooms above it, plus the small house next door, remained. Mama, the owner, lives in the house, and Barclay has the apartment. It’s nice; he has no commute, he can run up and change if he gauges his layers wrong, and he likes being able to hear the river running nearby and the traffic humming through his window. 

Maybe Joseph would like to come up here after closing some night for coffee? Or is that too forward? Would he be interested if it was forward, or if they took it slow? Would he be interested in Barclay at all? Does he just like him for his soup?

God, the soup. He never meant for it to become a thing. His usual menu had three or four soups of the day in rotation, but then Joseph ordered a bowl of the corn cheddar chowder to go with his club sandwich and ate it so joyfully that Barclay caught him licking his spoon. Which did nothing to quash his budding crush on the guy. So he started trying out new recipes just to see Joseph get excited, and now it seems like Joseph is coming in just for the soup, and the upshot is he may be stuck forever in a soup-loop because of the way Joseph’s eyes crinkle when he’s happy. 

He knows that Joseph agreeing to a date would make him happier than a fresh produce delivery. But he has no clue if he really stands a chance with a guy who’s always well-dressed and friendly, when he himself is an often quiet, scraggly looking cook. 

Well, if nothing else, he has to try. Dani is not a woman of empty threats. 

------------------------------------------------------

“How do you do it?” Joseph rests his chin in his hand, spoon sitting in his empty bowl. He’s at the counter seating, so he can see Barclay working at the grill. 

“Do what?”

“Come up with such good recipes. And don’t try to say it’s cookbooks; you said last week that you’ve come up with a lot of them on your own.”

“It’s, uh, it’s nothing special, just a lot of tinkering.” He gets an idea, one that flashes over him so hot and fast he’s afraid the stove caught fire. 

“Would, uh, would you like to help me out with the newest one? I get off in an hour since I was on the early shift today.”

“I’d love to! I have some errands to run downtown, so as much as I’d like to hang around for an hour and watch you show off, I’ll see you at seven.” He sets down the cash to cover the bill and a tip, winks, and heads out the door. Barclay really hopes he stays in the suit when he comes back.

“Uh, dude?”

“Yeah, Jake?”

“Toast’s on fire.”

“Fuck!”

-------------------------------------------------

Barclay finishes setting out his mise en place right as there’s a knock on the front door. He swings it open and finds Joseph waiting patiently, a grocery bag slung over his shoulder. He’s still in his suit; Barclay can just spot his black tie with little ufos on it peeking out of his winter coat. 

“Dani said I should just come on up.” He slips off his shoes, revealing socks with Bigfoot on them, “and I brought some wine, and a fancy beer I found at Jenny Street Market, since I wasn’t sure what kind of soup it is.”

“My take on a traditional Irish stew, so let's do the beer.” Barclay grabs two pint glasses and pours as Joseph finishes hanging up his coat and joins him in the kitchen. He’s down to his dress shirt and slacks, eagerly rolling up his sleeves before taking the glass. 

“Right, what do we do first?”

Barclay takes a prolonged sip to avoid blurting out his real answer, then starts explaining that they need to figure out the right ratio of vegetable to lamb and which spices work best in the stock. 

They talk as they work, Joseph sharing his theories on the plausible plot twists in this season of Agent X and Barclay teasing him whenever he gets going on a tangent about the monster of the week episodes. The easy back and forth, the warmth of the apartment as the air fills with spices and butter, the way the kitchen lights plays off Joseph’s face; it feels like a home, and his stomach twists whenever he remembers that the other man will leave in an hour or two. 

“Barclay, I have to ask; why the sudden zest for soup?” Joseph sets his glass down, still half full because they’re talking too much to drink more than a sip at a time. 

“Uhhh, just, uhh a good fit for a winter menu.” Barclay sets the lid onto the dutch oven; it’ll take at least forty-five minutes for this batch to thicken and develop flavor. When he hazards a glance at Joseph, the man is studying him, one eyebrow raised. 

“Is that all?”

He washes his hands to buy time to build up his courage, then sighs, “Nope. It started after the first time you ordered it. You just got so excited whenever I had a new soup of the day, and I liked making you feel that way, so I just kept finding or making new recipes I hoped you’d like. Heh” he rubs his wrist, anxious, “sounds hella weird when I say it out loud like that.”

Turning, he finds Joseph with his hands covering his mouth. 

“Fuck, sorry, probably shouldn’t have confessed that when we’re alone-”

“What? Oh, Barclay,” Joseph steps forward, taking his hands, “I’m not upset, I’m shocked. That’s, um, that’s one of the sweetest things anyone’s done for me, going to all that trouble, you didn’t have to.” The words are a bit stuttery and jumbled, Joseph going pinker after each one. 

“I wanted to. I’d make a whole new menu every day if it’d make you smile that way.”

His lower back bangs into the counter as Joseph crowds him, fingers digging into his hair so roughly that it starts coming loose from its tie. He tastes like beer and stock he kept sampling, and Barclay licks it up, pressing his tongue between his welcoming lips, desperate to bring them as close together as possible. 

Joseph pulls away, resting their foreheads together, as he undoes Barclay’s shirt with ruthless efficiency, “Do you have any idea how hot that is?”

“The...doing nice things for you part?” He cups Joseph’s cheeks, trailing his thumbs over the hints of five o’ clock shadow. 

“You went to all that trouble, just for me.” Joseph drags his mouth up Barclay’s neck as he continues, “just to make me happy.”

“I mean, made me happy too.” He mumbles into black hair.

“I’m trying to compliment you, big guy.” Joseph nips his bottom lip. 

“Oh fuck.” He whimpers at the nickname, at the way the other man doesn’t hesitate to shove his hands up his now-bare chest, demanding and adoring, “guess all those jokes about the way to a man’s heart being through his stomach are true.”

“While the food helps, there’s so much more about you that I like. For instance” he drags his hands down to Barclay’s stomach before palming his hardening cock through his jean, “you’re the most handsome man in town.”

He whimpers louder this time, Joseph keeping up the light pressure on his cock. 

“Bedroom?” It’s both an encouragement and a question, the ton letting Barclay know he’s welcome to continue but not obligated to.

“The, can’t, can’t leave the stove unattended.” He gropes Joseph’s ass through his slacks, kisses his neck as he tries to calculate if turning off the stew will mess up the recipe. 

“I love how responsible you are.” It’s another compliment, a dead serious one, “and I have an idea.” He steps back, hurries over to the grocery bag, and pulls out a small, rectangular box. 

“I couldn’t tell if this was a date, so I decided to be on the safe side.” He surveys the kitchen, “feel like picking a surface to bend me over?”

Barclay practically knocks a stack of cookbooks off the tiny kitchen table, dragging a laughing Joseph over to shove him across it. 

“This okay?” He pants as he covers the back of his neck with kisses. 

“Better than okay. Barclay please, I’ve, um, I’ve been thinking about this for weeks, and basically non-stop for the last two hours.”

“Fucking-A” He’s amazed there isn’t a cartoonish boi-oi-oing  when he gets his pants and boxers down, his cock--his whole being, really--aching for the chance to fuck the man in front of him. Getting Joseph’s pants down takes two tries, and opening the condom takes three because he’s shaking so hard from excitement. 

“Need a hand, big guy?” 

“Nope. Just need this.” 

“FUCKohfuck, shit” Joseph reaches forward, gripping the far edge of the table as Barclay sinks into him, “yes, need it too, need you so bad.”

“You got me babe” he loops one arm around Joseph’s hips, sets his free hand next to his on the table for balance, “and I got you.” He starts slow, relishing every little sound he gets in reply to his thrusts, kissing any exposed skin he can find, then rucking Joseph’s shirt up his back to find more. 

Joseph’s hand moves down towards his cock, but Barclay gently guides it back onto the table, “No need to babe. Like I said, I got you.” 

He doesn't mean to start railing him the instant after his fingers find his cock. It’s more that feeling him soaking and hard, all because of (and all for) him, the grateful moan he lets out at the contact, the way he grinds his hips back and forth, it sets off every part of Barclay’s brain at once, and all he wants to do is take him, make him cum, break the fucking table showing him how much he wants him. 

“Ohmylord” Joseph gasps, raising his head, “oh my fucking--Barclay yes, like that, lord you don;t disappoint.” His smile is ecstatic, more than the worlds clumsiest hand-job deserves, and Barclay forces his fingers to find their professional finesse, rub and stroke in the ways that make Joseph beg for more. 

He growls as he feels his orgasm building; not yet, no fucking way, he wants to feel Joseph cum around him. With Herculean effort, he stills his hips and focuses, growling again as Joseph tightens around him. When the man beneath him cums, the last of his restraint evaporates and he hammers into him, table scraping forward inch by inch in time with his grunts and Joseph’s weakening moans. 

His climax doubles him over, and he spills with a muffled moan, mouthing at Joseph’s shoulder through his shirt. 

Then his legs give, ten minutes of furious fucking after a ten hour shift enough for them to peace out. He lands with an “oof” on the floor, and Joseph is laughing again as he turns to stare down at him. 

“Are you okay down there?”

He gives a thumbs up, “Cute guy just shorted out all my circuits, no big.”

Joseph fixes his pants and shirt, joins him on the floor and pulls him into his arms, “I’d say it was very big.”

Barclay snickers, rests his head on his shoulder, “Walked into that one. Gimme sec, then I can make us some dinner. Don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

“We’re not having soup?”

Barclay kisses his cheek, “Nah, you can have that for dinner tomorrow at the Lodge.”

Joseph’s smile is full of delicious trouble, “How about for breakfast?”

He holds him close, smiling at him, “Babe, you got yourself a deal.”

[purplesurveys]

1273

What was the longest time you’ve had the hiccups for?  Maybe for half an hour? Mine are never that bad.

What type of TV shows are your favourite?  Not a big TV show type of person to begin with since it seems as if my attention span wasn’t built for once-a-week, season-breaks kind of content haha. I do like sitcoms, I guess...bite-sized ones like Friends, Brooklyn Nine-Nine, The Big Bang Theory, etc. Drama shows I’d bite into if the plot is extremely intriguing to me or relevant to my interests, like The Crown or Breaking Bad.

Have you ever been a complete fangirl/fanboy over anything?  I was before then I wasn’t for a very long time, then I came back just recently with this BTS shit I got myself into.

Do you know anyone who has died in battle?  Hmm. I don’t think so. My great-grandpa lived a few more decades after the war.

When was the last time you went on an adventure?  July. My friends and I spent the whole day driving around and stopping by sooo many spots around the metro. It was a lot of fun and we were fucking b e a t after.

What brand is your vacuum cleaner?  I dunno. My mom mainly uses ours.

Are you good at rapping?  I have a number of songs and verses memorized that I can recite quite okay, but I can’t write any of my own.

Name one world issue that upsets you.  Racism.

How do you feel about tanning?  I never saw the the big deal. I will say tanning beds and salons are such a culture shock to me, though. Are some people really that obsessed with modifying their skin tone?

Have you ever given a public speech? Hmm, just the one time I was entered into a public speaking competition and was given a topic to talk about on the spot. That was honestly a lot of fun and I wish there were more opportunities to do that exact same thing.

Do you read comic books?  No. I tried getting into that whole thing, but didn’t see the appeal.

Do you force your way into conversations in which you are not involved?  Not always but if I’m starting to feel left out or awkward, I will start to ask a question here and there to ease my way into the conversation. But if the topic is clearly none of my business then I do stay out of the way.

Kiss with your eyes open or closed?  Closed.

Do you believe you can change someone?  This isn’t a black and white matter, I think. The idea of changing a person can have a lot of layers; in my org, for instance, I got to pick up a few quirks and behaviors from my friends just by being around them for a long time – in that sense, I changed. But you can also strive to change someone who’s struggling and try to make them become happy, which I tried to do with my ex – which of course I learned the hard way that you can’t change someone if in that context.

How did you react when your first pet died?  I was bummed out but didn’t throw a fit.

Have you ever drawn anime?  No.

Can you use a pogo stick?  I’ve never even seen one in real life. I’m dying to try it out just once.

When’s the next time you’ll see the person that you like?  I don’t like anybodyyy.

Do you like bathing/showering?  I mean...yes? Like I’m not obsessed with showering, but it’s a necessity that I have to regularly do anyway lmao.

Have you ever considered entering a race?  Sure! Just give me a couple of weeks to practice because my endurance and stamina are embarrassing.

Rihanna or Lady Gaga?  Rihanna.

Who was your first good kiss with?  My ex.

What accessory do you want in your bedroom?  SHELVES

What do you take the most pictures of?  My experiences.

What are you always in the mood for?  Starbuuuuuuckssssssss.

What is something that you never turn down?  A day out with friends. I’ll always make time. What is something that you always turn down when offered?  Food, if I’m a guest at someone else’s place.

Name something sexy about your significant other.  I don’t have any.

What is one of your hobbies that you refuse to give up?  Surveys, I guess. I enjoy them too much and have been doing them for nearly a decade.

If you could be a professional in any sport what would it be?  Tennis.

If you could be a professional at any instrument what would it be?  PIANO.

Would you rather be a surgeon or mortician?  Surgeon. I would be too terrified seeing dead people, anyway.

Have you ever been on a subway? Nope.

Are you in love?  No.

Do you like having your lip softly bitten when you’re kissing?  Sure. Softly, roughly...both are fine hahaha.

Do you want to get married when you’re older?  I hope so. I want my turn, too.

What was the last band shirt you wore?  Eh, I don’t own any. I wore a fanmade V-themed shirt yesterday, if that counts.

You can have a milkshake right now. What flavor do you choose?  OMGGGG that sounds so fucking good rn. Chocolate chip cookie dough.

Have you ever given someone flowers?  Mhm, I used to give my ex bouquets whenever it was our anniversary.

What day of the week is usually your busiest day?  Monday like 98% of the time, so I hate them. It ultimately varies, though. Sometimes some days are a hell of a lot more hectic than others.

Do you have any concerts coming up? I mean...obviously not.

Do you like or hate the smell of fish?  Oh yessssssss. The smell of seafood/ocean always makes me fucking drool.

What’s your favorite brand of chips?  Pringles, or this local brand of salted egg chips that I love to get.

Have you ever written a poem and then read it aloud?  Yeah, once. We had to write a poem as our homework and my teacher picked out a couple that he thought were the best-written, and one of them was mine even though I still firmly believe I did a shit job.

Do you like pineapple?  Oh god no. One of the worse fruits I’ve had.

Does your house have a dishwasher?  No. It seems to be just a Western thing.

Do you know anyone who has a flower tattoo?  I probably do, but I just can’t give you a lineup of names. Flower tattoos seem to be trendy these days, especially in the line style.

How many different languages can you say goodbye in?  So I have goodbye, paalam, 안녕히 가세요, adios, auf wiedersehen, sayonara, au revoir...so that’s 7.

Agree or disagree: You like Adam Sandler movies.  Ummmm definitely childish and I can feel that the humor tries so hard sometimes but I do enjoy some of his movies, like 50 First Dates. 

Have you ever had to get a tooth pulled? If so, what for?  Yeah, I mentioned this on a previous survey.

Have you ever dated anyone while they were in jail?  No, I’ve never dated anyone who’s been imprisoned.

If you’ve ever babysat, do you like it?  I ‘babysat,’ but technically all eldest Asian daughters are expected to look out for their younger siblings and cousins anyway. I didn’t actively enjoy it, but sure, it was fun playing with them and it’s always nice to be viewed as responsible.

What is your favorite flavor on sunflower seeds?  I don’t eat sunflower seeds. I don’t dislike them, I just really never seek them out.

Do you get cold easily?  Yes.

Do you get a lot of spiders in your house?  Hmm no. If we do get visited they are almost always too small to be seen.

Do you admire nature?  Yeah, I try to be around it as often as I can.

Name one naughty thing you’ve done.  Had sex while a few people were in the same room. I pay for it now hahaha; those friends who had the misfortune to be in that situation have never let me live it down and it’s one of their go-to stories when I’m being introduced to new friends.

Name two of your favorite things as a child.  I loved everything Bratz. I also liked Play-Doh.

Do you own a Pillow Pet?  No, I’ve never even heard of that.

Do you tend to solve problems with violence?  Never.

Have either of your parents gone to jail?  Nope.

Do you know a hoarder?  I heard my grandma had been one, but I didn’t see traces of it when I used to visit her. I guess she had been when she was younger and stronger. I show traces of hoarding too, but I don’t think it’s at a concerning level; I literally just threw out a bunch of shit in my room I’ve hoarded over the last five or so years.

Do you wax, pluck, or leave your eyebrows?  I don’t touch them; I’m never all that worried about my appearance. On very rare instances, I will shave some of the excess hair off. Do you have any interesting scar stories?  None of them are interesting tbh, just results of my own stupidity.

Do you hate the texture of meatballs?  I don’t hate their texture but I also just don’t enjoy meatballs in general. I find them boring, which has always led me to think if they’re really supposed to be just boring clumps of meat or if I’ve just always been served average meatballs.

Do you get migraines? Yes, I usually get one after work. They’ve decreased in frequency now but one will drop by every now and then to give me a shit time.

Do you like guns?  No.

Are turtles amazing creatures? All animals are. :') < Yes! Except cockroaches.

How much time do you spend taking surveys?  I dedicate an hour or so every weekend. I often wish I can allot more time, but I also have other hobbies and interests I would usually want to catch up on during the weekends. 48 hours is just too short :(

Would you rather visit: The Eiffel Tower or Egyptian Pyramids? Pyramids, in a heartbeat. I wouldn’t even need to think about it.

Would you like to work at a candy shop?  Uh no. If I had to, it would be on the back-end, maybe in the corporate side of things lol.

Do you have feelings for someone?  Nope.

Which one of your guy friends is the best looking?  JM.

Do you have anything to say to your ex bf/gf?  No.

Which band do you have the most of on your iPod/music player?  I don’t use music players anymore but my Spotify always reminds me of how much I listen to BTS whenever they do one of their quirky listening habit reports lol.

Which song describes your mood at the moment?  I want to go with RM’s Bicycle just because I’m feeling quite content and relaxed at the moment.

Which movie(s) do you quote the most?  Eh, I’m not a big movie quoter.

Which one of your best friend’s friends would you most likely date?  I honestly don’t see any of them as date-able.

Would you ever let anybody else drive your car?  Sure. I’ve let Hans and Gab drive it countless times when I’ve had too much to drink. It’s a small car and is fairly easy to use and navigate. I would let Anj use it too at some point, but I want her to perfect her u-turns first hahahaha.

Which one of your friends will be the most successful?  It’s already one of my friends to begin with but I’m not naming names. They come from a privileged background to begin with and their godfather already handed one of his companies down to them, so. They were also told the CEO position is already a sure slot for them.

What store did you last shop at?  I wanna say NCAT, this Korean-themed store that sells trinkets and jewelries and plushies and stuff. They also sell BTS albums so Anj and I dropped by to check out and touch all the albums we can’t afford yet HAHA

Do you think telepathy is real?  No.

When did you last draw something for fun?  Last Saturday when I played an online drawing/guessing game with my uncles and aunts.

Who makes the most in your entire family?  My dad.

Do you like writing essays?  I love essays, it’s my favorite writing piece to make.

Do you think plastic surgery is no big deal?  It turns into one when it gets obsessive, like when people get excessive plastic surgeries specifically to look like another person. I’m looking at you, fucking Oli London.

Do you take your trash to the dump or have it picked up?  It’s picked up.

When you sneeze do you sneeze into your shirt or your hands?  I look away and just sneeze. Sometimes I’ll put up my elbow.

Do you usually have sex in the morning, noon or night time? Erm, I usually had it at night. I only had morning sex when we would spend the night; and I nearly never had noon sex.

Did you ever fail your learners/drivers test?  No.

Would you rather listen to Luke Bryan or Lil Wayne?  Gun to my head, Lil Wayne.

Name someone you’ve become a lot closer to recently:  Reena!!! I’m so grateful Angela introduced us to each other :) We both tend to get shy so we don’t actually actively get chatty when we see each other irl, but I love her presence and I love that she is my friend. I make up for it by being super friendly and wacky in our group chat haha. Does your car have a sunroof?  No. We used to have a car that did, but we had to sell that during the peak of the pandemic.

Are you closer to your mom or your dad?  Dad.

Have you ever had a friend with benefits? No.

Who’s the last person you cuddled with?  My ex.

Are you friends with any of your teachers on Facebook?  Yeup.

[firefield]

David Bowie - Reality (2003)

“The thing, probably, that keeps me writing is this awful feeling that there are no absolutes. That there is no truth. That we are, as I’ve been thinking for so many years now, fully in the swirl of chaos theory.” DB, 2003

I always learn new things about David Bowie whenever I listen through his complete discography chronologically, and this run through is no different. As I get close to the end here, I’m reminded how much less I know about these later works, due simply to the fact that they have existed for a much shorter time, and my experience with them is more limited. “Reality” rocks more than I realized on release day, especially coming off the heels of “Heathen” with all its layers and mystery and subtleties. An empty house afforded the opportunity to really crank this one up, a vinyl pass, and CD pass, and finally the 5.1 surround sound edition - and yeah - DB said he wanted a simpler sound, and wanted a record that could be translated into a live show easily and effectively and he got that in spades.

As with all his post-80’s work, and especially his post-heart attack material, “Reality” embraces the darker and more cynical side of DB’s many characters - from the irony of the album title with album art portraying a very cartoony space-man Bowie looking about as unreal and non-Reality as possible and still be recognizable - to DB’s insistence that he made a “positive!” record despite themes of aging and death, loneliness and anonymity, geopolitical strife, day-in-day-out mundanity and the creeping threat of urbanization to nature. Regarding the subject matter of Reality he told Interview Magazine, “This is probably a period when, more than any other time, the idea that our absolutes are disintegrating is manifest in real terms. Truths that we always thought we could stand by are crumbling before our eyes. It really is quite traumatic.”

I read quotes like that and I think, for a guy that is largely known for (and criticized for) his ability to synthesize the past and his surroundings into something entirely David-Bowieingly unique, he certainly shows skill at synthesizing the future as well. Beyond things like financial chicanery like Bowie Bonds and the impact of the internet on the creation and distribution of music, Bowie often hit at the very essence of what unites as well as divides.

The seeds of this malleablity of truth that DB describes had been planted in my country during the civil rights movement and the tragedy of the Vietnam War, but began to flower and bloom after the 9/11 event - affecting Bowie’s home turf and his family profoundly. Heathen is prescient, Reality is a little angry about things. DB took time to specifically say what Reality was not: it was not an angry album, it was not a response to 9/11, it was not his “New York Album” - but then he’d spend just as much time gently walking back those claims, almost wondering aloud if it was, in fact, all of those things and more. He speaks around this time about how naturally writing music came to him. Unforced, calmly. I think this “flow” is why you can glean so many little contradictions about Reality and it’s intentions and meaning. He’s letting it happen, not dictating the plot; the tensions of that city and that moment in time allowed to mold and shape the work. Polar opposite to the Heathen recording environment at Allaire Studios in the Catskill Mountains, Reality was recorded in the cramped Studio B of Philip Glass’s Looking Glass Studios in NYC and both those disparate studio choices impact their respective products acutely.

Reality is Bowie’s most “hands-on” record since Diamond Dogs, employing all his multi-instrumentalist abilities, and it’s also one of his most thoroughly demoed. Most all of Reality was demoed out in Studio B by DB and Tony Visconti playing all the instruments, with Mario McNulty (the same engineer DB would later trust with the posthumous reimagining/re-recording of Never Let Me Down) as studio assistant. According to Tony, he had a feeling that many of these “demo tracks” would not ever actually be re-recorded, so they were laid down at a useable fidelity. Consequently, much of the demo material survived on the final album. The band brought in for final overdubs was chosen with the live show in mind specifically. This was a smaller, tighter unit of BowieLive veterans and by all accounts recording was smooth and productive.

New Killer Star opens the record, and is also Reality’s debut single (that contained one of his more surprising B-sides, Sigue Sigue Sputnik’s ‘Love Missle F1-11’) and is a spectacular Earl Slick led hazy, woozy guitar statement.

This is followed by The Modern Lovers - Pablo Picasso - recorded in 1972 but delayed until their 1976 debut. This track mimics the space occupied by the Pixies cover Cactus - the second track on Heathen - DB pulling tracks from his past that he enjoys and placing them where they give the record momentum. Quite a different interpretation if you have heard the original - DB took liberties with both the lyric and the arrangement and it’s a cool little track.

Never Get Old follows and addresses the common theme of time and aging in DB compositions…. (Cygnet Committee, Time, Hearts Filthy Lesson, Changes, Fantastic Voyage, and many more) and the composition itself references much of his past in Space Oddities countdown, the elongated guitar strands of Heroes, bits of melody from Crack City, the four-walls-closing-in sense of Low and some of Hunky Dory’s ominous moments. A pounding live favorite.

…and seamlessly right into The Loneliest Guy. Anyone who saw the Reality Tour knows the captivating power of this piece, and it’s honesty and fragility was one of a few reasons why I thought this would be DB’s final album.

Looking For Water. Man, I *love* this song. It’s one of my favorite vocal performances on Reality and would certainly end up on my list of “underrated DB songs” were I compelled to make one. I like repetition in music, and it’s hypnotic and mantra-esque qualities - and this is one that always gets a significant volume boost.

She’ll Drive The Big Car - a supercool stab of Bowie sash and swagger, and a killer vocal performance, masking some seriously sad lyrics. Bowie manages to sound defiant, tired, funky, deferential, sexy and soulful all in the course of a single song. He’s such an effortlessly great singer, that’s it’s easy to become so accustomed to it that you almost miss it. It’s just “him.”

The exceedingly sweet “Days” fits nicely with all of Realities reflections, and has for me become a song I pay much more attention to since we lost the man to cancer.

Fall Dog Bombs The Moon is one of DB’s most overtly political songs, and was apparently written very quickly - under a half and hour - and directly addresses the Iraq War and the profiteering involved. Relatively bleak with murky lyrics, it’s a interesting and unique DB composition.

Try Some, Buy Some is just beautiful and I think one of Bowie’s most interesting and genuinely heart-felt covers (along with Waterloo Sunset, also from these sessions.) The inspiration to do this song comes directly from the 1971 Ronnie Spector version and the impact it had on him personally. DB seems to be absolutely sincere when he claimed that he had completely forgotten that it was a George Harrison composition until he sat down to work on the album credits.

Next up is the sizzling rocker Reality that has one foot in Tin Machine and one foot in The Next Day. Love Earl’s guitar sound here. Like New Killer Star, the guitar layers in this one sound amazing on the 5.1 surround mix.

Ahh yeah. Another in an amazing number of fantastic Bowie album closers. I’ve made it a point in my life to quit ranking art into “good/better/best/sucks categories and hierarchies and see art as an experience, not a competition. My friends know this about me, and consequently tease me and attempt to prod me into breaking this creed. Under unrelenting pressure to name a “favorite David Bowie track” I named Bring Me The Disco King.

I could give many reasons why this would be the one…. The repetition I mentioned earlier, here found in Matt Chamberlain’s drum loop (interestingly snagged from ‘When The Boys Come Marching Home,’) the overwhelming sense I had when I first heard it that this was DB’s final record, the sense that the threat of jazz that had always pounded on David’s door in his chord structures and harmonies had finally broken down the door… the very tangible sense that this was a composition that had already had a long life but stayed tucked into the shadows by its unsatisfied creator, only to be given life and light on this great album after it had been stripped down to almost nothing - simplicity being the sought after key to its finally being allowed to soar. If it’s not already obvious, I think this song is magnificent. Literally. The fact that David knew it was deep inside there, he just had to mine it out over the course of a decade or so is extraordinary.

Couple of thoughts about a track that didn’t fit well on Reality but made it to bonus/B-sides…

How cool is his cover of The Kinks Waterloo Sunset? In the years after his death, when I feel that loss in my heart, it’s Waterloo Sunset I turn up to 11 and allow it to yank me back out of that murk.

“People so busy

makes me feel dizzy

but I don’t feel afraid

as long as I gaze on Waterloo Sunset

I am in paradise.”