#Term Paper Writing Service

[houstonessays]

How to Choose the Best Term Paper Writing Service: A Complete Guide

It can be difficult to locate trustworthy academic support when dealing with complicated assignments and short deadlines. With so many websites providingterm paper writing assistance, students require clear guidance in order to make wise decisions.

Visit Us: https://livepositively.com/how-to-choose-the-best-term-paper-writing-service-a-complete-guide/

[adamthomas55]

Term Paper Writing Service: A Comprehensive Guide

Introduction to Term Paper Writing Service

Term paper writing services offer students the opportunity to delegate the arduous task of crafting comprehensive academic papers to experienced professionals. These term paper writing services encompass a wide range of disciplines and topics, catering to diverse educational requirements across various academic levels.

Understanding the Importance of Term Papers

Term papers serve as significant assessments of students' comprehension, research skills, and analytical abilities within specific subjects or courses. They offer a platform for students to delve deep into a topic, explore diverse perspectives, and present cohesive arguments supported by credible evidence.

Challenges Faced by Students in Term Paper Writing

The process of term paper writing is laden with challenges, including but not limited to time constraints, lack of understanding of the subject matter, and linguistic barriers for non-native English speakers. Additionally, students may encounter difficulties in organizing their thoughts coherently and adhering to academic formatting and citation guidelines.

What to Look for in a Term Paper Writing Service?

When seeking assistance from a term paper writing service, it is imperative to consider several factors to ensure a satisfactory outcome:

Quality of Work

The hallmark of a reputable term paper writing service lies in its ability to deliver high-quality, well-researched papers that adhere to academic standards and requirements.

Plagiarism-Free Guarantee

Originality is paramount in academic writing. A reliable service should guarantee plagiarism-free content, accompanied by proper citations and references to avoid academic misconduct.

Timely Delivery

Meeting deadlines is crucial in academic settings. A dependable writing service should demonstrate a commitment to punctuality, delivering completed papers within agreed-upon timeframes.

Customer Support

Effective communication channels and responsive customer support facilitate a seamless collaboration between students and writers, ensuring clarity of instructions and timely resolution of queries.

Benefits of Using a Term Paper Writing Service

The advantages of engaging a term paper writing service extend beyond timely submission and academic relief. These services offer:

Expertise and proficiency in diverse subject areas

Customized solutions tailored to individual requirements

Opportunity for learning and skill enhancement through model papers

Stress reduction and improved time management abilities

How to Choose the Right Term Paper Writing Service

Selecting the most suitable term paper writing service requires careful consideration and evaluation of various parameters:

Research and Reviews

Conduct thorough research and seek recommendations from peers or online forums to identify reputable service providers with a proven track record of customer satisfaction.

Samples and Portfolio

Review samples of previous work and examine the portfolio of writers to assess their proficiency, writing style, and ability to meet specific academic criteria.

Communication Channels

Prioritize services that offer transparent communication channels, enabling direct interaction with assigned writers to facilitate collaboration and address concerns effectively.

Common Misconceptions about Term Paper Writing Services

Despite their utility, term paper writing services are often subject to misconceptions and stigma within academic circles. It is essential to debunk common myths and misconceptions surrounding these services, emphasizing their role as academic aids rather than shortcuts to success.

Cost Considerations and Budgeting

While cost is a significant factor in selecting a term paper writing service, it should not be the sole determinant. Evaluate pricing structures in conjunction with quality assurances and service features to make informed decisions aligned with budgetary constraints.

Tips for Maximizing the Benefits of a Term Paper Writing Service

To derive maximum value from term paper writing services, students should:

Provide clear and detailed instructions to writers

Review and revise completed papers to ensure alignment with personal preferences and academic standards

Utilize delivered papers as learning resources and reference materials for future assignments

Academic Integrity and Ethics

Maintaining academic integrity is paramount when utilizing term paper writing services. Students should uphold ethical standards by acknowledging external assistance and integrating acquired knowledge into their academic pursuits responsibly.

Strategies for Using Term Paper Writing Services Effectively

Integrate term paper writing services into broader academic strategies aimed at enhancing learning outcomes and academic performance. Emphasize active engagement with course materials and seek clarification on challenging concepts to complement external assistance effectively.

Case Studies: Successful Use of Term Paper Writing Services

Explore real-life examples of students who have leveraged term paper writing services to overcome academic hurdles and achieve academic success. These case studies illustrate the transformative impact of strategic collaboration with professional writers.

Academic Support Systems and Alternatives

In addition to term paper writing services, students can explore alternative academic support systems, including tutoring services, study groups, and academic workshops, to supplement their learning experiences and address specific academic needs.

Maintaining Academic Performance with Term Paper Writing Services

While term paper writing services offer valuable support, maintaining academic performance requires a multifaceted approach encompassing diligent study habits, effective time management, and proactive engagement with course materials.

Conclusion

In conclusion, term paper writing services serve as invaluable resources for students navigating the complexities of academic writing. By leveraging professional expertise and adhering to ethical standards, students can enhance their academic performance, alleviate stress, and cultivate essential skills for lifelong learning.

FAQs

Are term paper writing services legal?

Yes, term paper writing services operate within legal boundaries and provide assistance to students in accordance with academic regulations.

Can I trust term paper writing services to maintain confidentiality?

Reputable term paper writing services prioritize client confidentiality and employ robust security measures to safeguard personal information.

How do term paper writing services ensure quality and originality?

Term paper writing services employ experienced writers with subject expertise and utilize plagiarism detection software to ensure originality and quality of content.

What if I'm not satisfied with the delivered paper?

Most term paper writing services offer revisions or refunds in cases of dissatisfaction, provided the issues align with agreed-upon requirements.

How can I distinguish between legitimate and fraudulent term paper writing services?

Legitimate term paper writing services exhibit transparency, provide clear terms of service, and offer responsive customer support, whereas fraudulent services may display inconsistencies or lack credibility.

[writingsharks12]

Get Best Term Paper Writing Service at Writing Sharks

Struggling with your term paper? Writing Sharks offers a professional term paper writing service tailored to meet your academic needs. Our experienced writers craft well-researched, original papers that follow your guidelines and meet your deadlines. Whether it’s for college or university, we guarantee plagiarism-free content, timely delivery, and complete confidentiality. Trust Writing Sharks to help you succeed—get high-quality term papers without the stress. Order now and score higher!

[nmimsmbasolvedassignments-7]

How do I find customized NMIMS BBA 1st Sem Organization Behaviour & HRM Solved Assignment

NMIMS Dec 2024 Customized MBA Solved Assignments, NMIMS Dec 2024 Customized Solved Assignments

Academic Excellence Redefined: How Dr. Aravind Banakar Supports NMIMS Students

For over two decades, Dr. Aravind Banakar has been at the forefront of academic support for NMIMS students. His approach to assignment assistance is rooted in a deep understanding of the specific demands of NMIMS courses and a commitment to helping students achieve academic excellence. Dr. Banakar’s expertise in crafting customized, unique, and plagiarism-free assignments has made him a trusted name among NMIMS students.

Dr. Banakar’s support begins with thoroughly understanding the student’s needs. He analyzes the guidelines and objectives of each assignment, ensuring that his support is tailored to meet these specific requirements. This level of customization helps students produce high-quality work that reflects their personal academic goals and strengths.

One of the standout features of Dr. Banakar’s service is his unwavering commitment to originality. In an academic environment where plagiarism is a severe offense, Dr. Banakar takes every measure to ensure his assignments are free from academic dishonesty. He employs advanced plagiarism detection tools and extensive experience to deliver unique and high-quality content. This commitment protects students from potential penalties and instills in them a respect for intellectual property and academic ethics, making them feel secure and respected.

Dr. Banakar’s support goes beyond content creation. He provides valuable guidance on structuring assignments, developing solid arguments, and adhering to the highest academic writing standards. His meticulous approach ensures that each assignment is clear, coherent, and well-supported by evidence. This attention to detail helps students score better and teaches them the importance of clarity and precision in academic writing, making them feel confident and competent.

One of the key aspects of Dr. Banakar’s service is his commitment to originality. Plagiarism is a severe offense in academia, and Dr. Banakar takes every measure to ensure that his assignments are free from academic dishonesty. He employs advanced plagiarism detection tools and extensive experience to deliver unique and high-quality content. This commitment to originality protects students from potential penalties and instills in them a respect for intellectual property and academic ethics.

Dr. Aravind Banakar’s extensive experience and unwavering dedication to providing customized, plagiarism-free assignments have made him a vital resource for NMIMS students pursuing MBA, BBA, B.Com, and EMBA degrees. His commitment to academic integrity and student success sets a benchmark in academic writing. As he continues to inspire and empower students, Dr. Banakar remains a beacon of excellence in the ever-evolving landscape of higher education, making students feel inspired and motivated.

We are number 1, NMIMS Assignments Academic Writing Professionals.

We are the most reputable and reliable NMIMS Assignments provider in India

We Provide 100 % Customized, 100 % Unique, and 100 % Plagiarism-free Assignments. Also, we are specialists in Project Reports.

We offer both General and Customized projects. Please be sure to hurry for quality assignments.

With a history spanning over 24 years, we have provided unparalleled academic writing support to students, scholars, and researchers worldwide.

NMIMS University BBM Solved Assignments & Capstone Projects

NMIMS University BBA Solved Assignments & Capstone Projects

NMIMS University B.Com Solved Assignments & Capstone Projects

NMIMS University EMBA Solved Assignments & Capstone Projects

NMIMS University MBA Solved Assignments & Capstone Projects

NMIMS Dec 2024 BBA 1st Sem Solved Assignments

NMIMS Dec 2024 BBM 1st Sem Solved Assignments

NMIMS Dec 2024 MBA 1st Sem Solved Assignments

NMIMS Dec 2024 EMBA 1st Sem Solved Assignments

NMIMS Dec 2024 BBA Solved Assignments

NMIMS Dec 2024 BBM Solved Assignments

NMIMS Dec 2024 BCOM Solved Assignments

NMIMS Dec 2024 General Solved Assignments

NMIMS Dec 2024 Customized MBA Solved Assignments

NMIMS Dec 2024 Customized Solved Assignments

NMIMS Dec 2024 Customized BBA Assignments

NMIMS Dec 2024 Customized BBM Assignments

NMIMS Dec 2024 Customized Assignments

NMIMS all Semester Solved Assignments

NMIMS Assignment Guidelines by Dr. Aravind Banakar

NMIMS Assignment Help by Dr. Aravind Banakar

NMIMS MBA Solved Assignments by Dr. Aravind Banakar

NMIMS Online Assignment Submission by Dr. Aravind Banakar

NMIMS Assignment Solutions by Dr. Aravind Banakar

NMIMS Assignment Writing Services by Dr. Aravind Banakar

NMIMS Apr 2025 1st Sem Assignments

NMIMS Apr 2025 2nd Sem Assignments

NMIMS Apr 2025 3rd Sem Assignments

NMIMS Apr 2025 4th Sem Assignments

NMIMS Apr 2025 BBA Assignments

NMIMS Apr 2025 BBM Assignments

NMIMS Apr 2025 BCOM Assignments

NMIMS Apr 2025 PGDBM Assignments

NMIMS Apr 2025 General Assignments

NMIMS Apr 2025 Customized MBA Assignments

NMIMS Apr 2025 Customized Solved Assignments

NMIMS Apr 2025 Customized BBA Assignments

NMIMS Apr 2025 Customized BBM Assignments

NMIMS Apr 2025 Customized PGDBM Assignments

NMIMS Apr 2025 Customized Assignments

NMIMS homework support

NMIMS online tutoring

NMIMS assignment experts

NMIMS assignment solutions

NMIMS assignment guidance

NMIMS APR 2025Customized Assignments

NMIMS Plagiarism-free Assignments

NMIMS assignment solutions

NMIMS assignment writing service

NMIMS academic support

NMIMS online learning assistance

NMIMS assignment consultancy

NMIMS project writing assistance

NMIMS exam preparation help

NMIMS assignment guidance

NMIMS coursework writing service

NMIMS academic research assistance

NMIMS assignment coaching

NMIMS term paper writers

NMIMS assignment outsourcing

NMIMS assignment completion services

NMIMS online assignment help desk

NMIMS assignment review service

NMIMS academic writing workshops

SVKM’s Narsee Monjee MBA Solved Assignments

 SVKM’s  Narsee Monjee BBA Solved Assignments

SVKM’s  Narsee Monjee BBM Solved Assignments

SVKM’s  Narsee Monjee B.COM Solved Assignments

SVKM’s  Narsee Monjee EMBA Solved Assignments

 SVKM’s  Narsee Monjee MBA 1st Sem Solved Assignments

 SVKM’s  Narsee Monjee BBA 1st Sem Solved Assignments

SVKM’s  Narsee Monjee BBM 1st Sem Solved Assignments

SVKM’s  Narsee Monjee B.COM 1st Sem Solved Assignments

SVKM”s Narsee Monjee EMBA 1st Sem Solved Assignments

 SVKM’s  Narsee Monjee MBA 2nd Sem Solved Assignments

 SVKM’s  Narsee Monjee BBA 2nd Sem Solved Assignments

SVKM’s  Narsee Monjee BBM 2nd Sem Solved Assignments

SVKM’s  Narsee Monjee B.COM 2nd Sem Solved Assignments

SVKM’s  Narsee Monjee EMBA 2nd Sem Solved Assignments

Dr. Aravindkumar Banakar aravind.banakar@gmail.com +91 9901366442 +91 9902787224 https://mbacasestudyanswers.com

[teaxtease]

₊˚.༄ J. YUNHO — magic hands

synopsis: a magical uni AU where your friend has an unusual way of tutoring you warnings: 2.3k words, first smut fic, porn with plot, afab reader, cursing, cunnilingus, oral sex (f receiving: over panties and without them), virgin reader and experienced yunho, soft/service dom yunho, pussy drunk yunho, ‘pretty’ used as a petname (once), not proofread.

yet another alchemy assignment you had procrastinated was splayed across the desk, mocking you.

the owner of the desk, your friend yunho, was seated right next to you, his chair practically glued to yours. he was much too close for comfort or concentration. he’d gone over the same question twice already, his hands pointing out highlighted terms and tapping the desk when you’d space out.

but he didn’t raise his voice. he didn’t give up on your grade or your attention, forcing you to focus with a call of your name and reassurance that you were almost there.

it was torture to pretend to pay attention to any of the complicated formulas coming from his mouth when all you could focus on was the scent of his laundry mixing with the mint of his breath.

fresh, comforting, reassuring. so very him.

so it was no surprise that a ten minute assignment turned into a half hour task, the clock marking each minute in the corner of his room.

you weren’t stupid. lazy, perhaps, with how last-minute you’d decided to begin even writing your name on the paper, but you absolutely knew what you were doing: showing up to yunho’s apartment on a late sunday night. lightly perfumed, body shaved, clothes ironed perfectly, and teeth freshly brushed.

you were justified; he was one of your closest friends, your partner in class, among the top students, and willing to help. you just wanted to… double check your work. eye-candy was just a plus.

but half an hour wasn’t nearly enough, so you stalled before leaving, your chair still pulled close to his as you doodled on your scratch paper.

“so… how do you know when you’ve manifested enough energy for healing?” you asked him, referring to the new skill you were expected to master in the next year. it was supposed to be easy enough, much more simple than other sorcery you’d already begun, but it always escaped you just barely every time you practiced it.

his warm eyes remained on your hands for a moment before flicking towards your shorts for a fraction of a second. “it’s not really easy to describe… i’d have to make a weird comparison.”

“weird?” you mumbled, frowning as you examined his sudden shift in posture.

he nodded silently, his dyed honey hair shaking softly with the movement, before adding, “the closest i can get is the intense wave feeling you get when you cum.”

“oh,” is all you managed, looking down at your lap and then powering through the silence, “you’re telling me it feels orgasmic?”

he exhaled amusedly, as if you’d said something adorably naive, “no— i mean, the way your nerves feel like they’re going into overdrive but… in waves.”

“right.”

there was a stretch of silence as you digested his words, part of you wishing you hadn’t asked. sure, talking about sex with your crush would normally be exciting, but in this context, it was mortifying. so you avoided his eyes as you normally did when he said something suggestive so casually that it made you want to jump out of your skin.

he watched your inner turmoil, struggling to fight a smile off his lips, “why’d you say it like that?”

“like what?”

“like you don’t know what i’m talking about,” he replied simply, eyes tracing over your features as you finally glanced up at him.

you forced yourself to shrug, trying your hardest not to read into the implications of his statement. but there wasn’t much you could do to save yourself from the truth that you couldn’t relate to the analogy in the slightest.

his attempts at staying serious crumbled, and his shoulders shook with laughter, “you actually don’t know what i’m talking about.”

“well,“ you winced, not wanting to get into details with him of all people, “not really. it’s not intense, not like you’re describing.”

he pursed his lips, seemingly deep in thought as he replied, “then, no offense, but you’re doing something wrong.”

you couldn’t help but feel insulted by his words, your eyes narrowed as you spoke, “what— no? i just don’t think it’s as intense as some people make it out to be. like your stupid neighbors.”

the mention of the couple next door to his apartment made yunho sigh in annoyance, but the corners of his lips curled, “yeah, i don’t think that poor girl’s really feeling the way she sounds like she is. but it’s not impossible to make someone sound like that genuinely.”

“like you would know,” you scoffed, still peeved by his unnerving comments.

he looked down at you with an unreadable expression, holding your gaze for a moment before turning away and laughing. “maybe, maybe not. the point is,” he paused, taking a hold on your right hand and flipping it over, tracing his finger over your open palm, “it’ll feel like concentrated warmth. right here.”

the slight tremble of your pinky didn’t go unnoticed by the blonde man, and he held your hand steady, “you’re overthinking it. you’re talented, it’ll come naturally to you.”

“but how will i know when i’m ready?” you insisted, the furrow of your brow deepening with frustration.

he used his other hand to smooth a finger over the crease of your forehead, “you’ll know when you feel it. it’s overwhelming at first, but it’s pleasant, i promise.”

“but if i’ve never experienced a feeling like that,” you trailed off, the tips of your ears feeling hot under his touch.

he inhaled sharply, “then you have two options. wait it out, expect the unexpected. or train your nerves a little.”

the suggestion made your stomach churn, words slipping from yours lips before you could think twice, “train with who?“

you saw the slight twitch of your friend’s jaw, a puff of air coming out roughly from his nose, “i mean, i don’t know. obviously whatever guy you’ve been with hasn’t worked.”

you thought you saw your chance open up after months of you planting seeds, but you couldn’t be sure he was interested the way you were. so you danced around what you really wanted to say, “i haven’t.”

“haven’t what?” he asked, knowing exactly what you meant but needing confirmation from you.

“been with anyone. i guess whatever i’m doing with myself isn’t the same as…” you trailed off, your chair suddenly feeling too stiff and the air feeling heavier.

his adam’s apple bobbed up and down slowly as he registered your words, his eyes closed as he gathered his thoughts, “really? i didn’t mean to assume, it’s just… you’re…”

“yunho,” you interrupted his train of thought, your thigh brushing against his as you shifted in your seat, “would you help me?”

yunho’s fingers travel across the backs of your thighs, gently pushing you to lie all the way on your back as he settles down on his chest. his bedsheets are cold, an exciting contrast to the warmth of his breath over your calves.

you shudder against the cool air, clad only in your panties; his kiss-swollen lips placing kisses up your legs, stopping at your knees to pull them open for him.

“are you sure this is okay? you’re tense,” he mumbles against the inside of your calf, his hands hovering under your knees.

you nod, trying to relax your legs and feeling your muscles twitch as he slides his body between your legs, “just nervous.”

he eyes the waistband of your underwear, feeling his restraint dwindle by the second, “nothing to be nervous about. but i want you to let me know what you feel.”

you agree with a hum, earning you a quick smile from the man below you. he’s slow, his patience translating even into this aspect of his personality as he climbs back over you to leave lingering kisses on your lips.

he swallows the almost silent noises you make greedily, one of his hands resting on the base of your neck while the other plays experimentally with your nipples. you can feel the noises he holds back when you respond to his touch, seemingly just as aroused as you.

when he breaks the kiss, he wastes no time in trailing open-mouthed kisses down your abdomen, reaching just above the last piece of cloth covering you before pulling away.

you’re about to complain when he straightens up, taking off his shirt with practiced quickness and lying back down on his stomach. instinctively, you almost seal your eyes shut but you force them to stay open and witness the sight you’d been craving for over a year.

“is this okay?” he asks quietly, pointer finger hooking under the waistband of your underwear. he smiles when your back arches slightly in anticipation, “c’mon, gotta hear a clear yes.”

“yes,” you breathe out, squirming against the sheets, “yes, i’m just… embarrassed.”

he hums thoughtfully, suddenly tracing his thumb over your slit, the cloth of your underwear clinging to you. he smiles when you exhale shakily, “that’s okay, i’ll help you with that.”

before you can even begin to question what he means, his tongue is already laid flat against you, his saliva soaking the lace even further. he gives a few, slow licks before pressing a kiss where he supposed your clit was, “you wore lace panties to study?”

an apology dies in your throat as you attempt to speak over the dizzying temperature of the room, but he cuts you off, “don’t be sorry. they’re cute. i’ve always liked this color on you.”

he makes quick work of sliding the waistband down your thighs, a groan falling from his lips as strings of arousal cling to you. he mutters something incoherent under his breath before setting the cloth to the side and placing your legs on his shoulders.

"i'll be gentle," he says quietly, more of an oath to himself than a promise to you. he leans in to lick a stripe up your heat, gauging your reaction before placing another and then another, each with more precision and pressure than the last.

"fuck, yunho," you say, your head buzzing slightly with the rhythm he's set, "feels weird."

he smiles against you, expecting your reaction. his hand moves from the back of your thigh to rest his arm's weight over your hips. "i know," he muses, replacing his tongue with his thumb. he coaxes a whine out of you as he traces circles on your clit, "you wanna stop?"

you shake your head almost too quickly, "no, i just didn't expect— i feel like i can't control my body."

"you can let go," he reassures you, slipping a finger down your slit as he distracts you with soft kisses on your clit, "i want you to. don't think about it, just relax." you moan in agreement when you feel his finger prod at your hole. he's careful to ease you into the feeling, pumping that finger slowly, his lips still sucking around you before inserting another one, "so good for me, pretty."

the feeling is foreign at first, his fingers reaching spots you hadn't even breached before, but the pumping of his hand paired with his relentless mouth makes your neck crane all the way back.

soon enough, you find yourself bucking your hips absentmindedly, your hands brushing through his hair and pushing him against you, "right there, please, yunho."

his eyes roll back at your pleas, his hips twitching against the bed in search of relief. he wants to pull back, tease you a bit, ask if you're feeling the waves he'd described to you, but he takes one look up at your scrunched up features and abandons the idea completely.

he doesn't ask you if you're close, the clenching around his fingers and progressively more erratic breathing giving you away. he simply moans in response, allowing you to use his face in your final moments as you reach your peak.

if he were in his right mind, he'd undoubtedly make fun of you for the volume of your moans, but they only spurred him on to help you ride your orgasm all the way through, his strong hands pushing your hips down and his mouth still lapping at you.

once he figures you've had enough, he pulls his fingers out, quick to prop himself up to take a look at you, "you there?"

your eyes are unfocused but you nod, trying to stabilize your breathing, "yeah, i'm fine."

he smiles as he glances down at your closed legs, running a soothing hand over the side of your thigh and moving off of you, "how was that?"

"overwhelming, like you said," you admit shyly, suddenly hit by the vulnerability of your nudeness.

"imagine a toned-down version of that concentrated in your palms," he says, moving onto his side and watching your chest shake with uneven breaths.

silence floods yunho's room once more, and he allows it to span out until you've regained control of your breathing before speaking up, "i'm really hoping you wore that lace for me."

your widened eyes flicker over to him as he tugs a blanket over you, "what?"

"i mean, i hope you did this because you've been wanting to for as long as i have. i hope this wasn't a spur of the moment kinda thing," he clarifies, gazing at you with that familiar look you now recognized as fondness.

a fit of laughter courses through your body and you turn away from him, face in his pillow, "you've been wanting to fuck me?"

he chokes on his laughter, shaking his head and reaching out to grab your forearm to get you to face him, "no, i haven’t even... i mean, yes, the fact that you chose me to do this for you means a lot. but i don't want this to be a one-time thing. or something we do with other people. or all we do."

you glance from the man in front of you to the alchemy worksheet on his desk, heart warmed by his unconventional confession, "i have a perfect grade in alchemy, yunho, i never actually needed your help. but i do suck at sorcery."

"so the lace was for me!"

writing tension is so much more fun than the actual smut... stay tuned for pirate hongjoong, or knight yeosang, or prince san?

[jethrowest]

let me see you stripped down to the bone…

- stripped by depeche mode

congratulations! you’ve been hired as homelander’s entire glam squad! what an opportunity! now let’s try real hard not to let the fumes get to you, okay?

pairing : homelander/afab reader

word count : 5.6k

warnings : homelander in and of himself, toxic workplace environment, something akin to stockholm syndrome, fingering, smut. 18+, mdni

special thanks to @blindmagdalena @sehtoast @homeb0ys and @clockworkzeppelin for letting me scream at you about this!

writing tag

gif credit

divider credit

Homelander is an asshole.

That doesn’t bother you much. You’ve dealt with plenty in this field, which means you’ve learned how to make life easier for all parties. That particular learning curve includes when to stand out and blend in, at times concurrently depending on what variety of asshole they happen to be.

As a whole, the makeup artists and hairstylists at Vought take care of The Seven and go where they’re needed. And as a cosmetologist, you were hired to provide both services for Homelander and Homelander only, which you consider to be one of the most prestigious stamps one could add to their professional passport.

Before you became official, you were colorfully threatened by a Ms. Ashley Barrett, who, after the fact, had no qualms throwing you into the lion’s den to figure your own shit out.

In no uncertain terms were you told that if you fucked any part of this up, your sparkling resume would look best as something to sit her smooth, bare ass on while getting fucked on top of her desk. No lube or protection. It would then be tossed exactly like her salad.

Not an image you could have ever predicted crossing your mind. Honestly, you should have stopped her right there and walked your happy little ass out of her office toward pastures that might have not been greener (you were being handsomely compensated), but certainly not as toxic. While the red flags were a color you couldn’t quite ignore, you were also curious about why they stood out so much more than they did regarding previous employers.

None of this is to say you live under a rock. Anyone who has access to the internet is ambushed daily by these Supes’ personal lives. Homelander’s track record as far as choice in partners went hadn’t been ideal, so you understand that made him less popular at the time. That of course has nothing to do with you or your capabilities.

You opt to wear gray-colored glasses, seeing everything with a neutral blend of black and white. As much as possible anyway.

Nevertheless, curiosity killed the cat. But hopefully not your career.

The first day was awkward to say the least. Immediately, you knew you weren’t going to like your coworkers.

Glints of sympathy changed how they perceived you. A target, whether they intended for this to happen or not, was nailed to your forehead, and it made them buzz around you like avid, greedy wasps keen on seeing how rapidly the honeybee will be brutalized. You didn’t much care for going cross-eyed while staring at that target whenever you crossed paths. They didn’t know you, yet because of who you were working under, deemed you helpless. They didn’t give you a chance to establish yourself before branding you a victim.

Why should you respect them?

Small talk wasn’t entertained either, as their judgment tarnished any future encounters. They ostracized you once you showed no interest in engaging with them. That didn’t disappoint you. You weren’t here to make friends.

You do wonder how those before you fared: if they were jaded when they arrived or if they couldn’t help but succumb to the pressures of being at the top rung of a very unstable albeit sought after ladder.

Ms. Barrett quickly introduced you to Homelander, her parting gift before leaving the two of you alone.

You weren’t completely nervous in his presence. He wasn’t any different to you than the other celebrities you’d worked on, except he could rip you in half like a piece of paper if he was so inclined. But he’s the hero of this country’s story, so really, you should have nothing to worry about.

His demeanor, you noted, suggested arrogance, annoyance, and boredom. All things you’re used to. So you offered your hand to shake, which he eyed with a slightly upturned nose before grabbing, told him it was a pleasure to meet him and got straight to business.

Looking back, he was clearly expecting more out of you. Maybe not a display as excessive as getting on your knees and professing your undying love, but close enough. Somewhere in the middle, perhaps.

Part of you believes he might have also counted on fear. To you, he’s not anything or anyone unknown. Another big name in a fancy suit with impossible demands.

You were given a routine to follow and products to use. You did as you were instructed and found the process to be simple and, as Homelander’s expression revealed, uninspiring.

While you were utilizing a face brush to apply powder, he must have decided he was done enduring your lack of enthusiasm, because he suddenly asked, “What are you wearing?”

You stopped for a split second, no longer than, and continued. “The name of my clothing designer, you mean?”

He scoffed, waving his gloved hand at you, almost knocking the applicator you held to the ground. “No, your perfume. What are the top notes?”

You laughed and that seemed to confuse him. “Why, you want a bottle?”

“I don’t like it.” He sniffed sharply and cleared his throat. “Smells like you should be on the corner selling your used body parts.”

Ding ding ding. Alarm bells and red flags galore. You enjoy a challenge, however, and are a bit of a masochist, so you persevere.

“Well, what doesn’t smell like a cheap hooker to you? I’ll start wearing that instead.”

He cocked a brow, studying you. Trying to figure out if you were being serious or mocking him.

“It’s your first day.” A warning. “Are you on your best behavior, or can you do better?” He leaned forward in his chair, forcing you backward. “You should be working harder to prove yourself. Prove your worth.” He sat back again and shrugged. “Or maybe you really are worth as much as that dumpster juice you doused yourself in.”

At this point, he more than likely envisioned your happy little ass getting offended and storming out of the room. Breaking down, sobbing. Questioning why he was being so rude. One of those or, better yet, a nifty combination.

You’ve heard worse, unfortunately for him. Not always directed at you, but that doesn’t matter. You can handle it.

“You’re absolutely right,” you stated calmly, folding your arms across your chest. He looked at you with pretentious, petulant intrigue. “It is my first day, and I want to make a good impression. Which is why I’m asking you what you would like me to wear so I can continue to keep that good impression intact and, as our professional relationship develops, stay on top of it.”

Homelander’s mouth twitched. He sighed deeply and slouched in his seat, staring at the wall to the left of him. Then he deigned to cast his gaze back at you, resting his cheek on his index and middle finger. He tapped the arm rest with his other hand.

“Ugh, fine. Whatever.” A pause followed that lasted longer than necessary. Were you meant to guess? “Just wear something, I dunno, less. If you would have done your homework like a good little peon, you’d know I have super senses. Highly developed. Can you even imagine what that entails?”

Finally, he freed the canvas you were nearly finished with, and you flicked the soft bristles across the bridge of his nose. You smiled, more to yourself than him.

Felt rather on the nose, as the saying goes.

He didn’t comment on your grin. You didn’t give him time to. But he did huff like you were being obtuse on purpose.

“I can try. And my imagination is giving me some less-than-ideal scenarios,” you replied. Another pause. At least he was letting you do your job again.

You don’t know what compelled you to keep going, but something about his lack of a real answer made you carry on. “Do you have a favorite flower or baked good? Maybe a spice?”

Homelander almost glared up at you. You say almost because, for whatever reason, it didn’t seem like he was directing that harshness at you, though former words and actions proved otherwise. Something inside, perhaps. Or outside of this enclosed space.

“I already told you what to wear. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

You took the hint and remained quiet the rest of your session. Soon, you were done.

As you were packing and tidying up your station, he took it upon himself to stand behind you. He lingered over your shoulder, watching the scene play out like he was director and star and you were barely an ant on the sidewalk he acknowledged before squashing.

The heat radiating off of him was impossible to dismiss, a wall of it barricading your backside. He clasped his fingers underneath his cape and inched closer. You thought he was as close to you as he could get without touching you. He was that warm.

When you glanced up, he was staring at you through the mirror. As absurd as it was, you managed to get chills. Goosebumps broke the surface of your skin.

“Fresh chocolate chip cookies. Straight out of the oven. Like mom used to make.” He flashed an unnerving smile before turning to exit.

From there on out, even after you bent to his will and found a gourmand scent that matched what he described, Homelander tested you. Your work ethic, clothing choice, eating habits, and most of all, patience.

Your parents would ask how you were liking your job, how it was working alongside the Supes- not to mention the most famous of all- and you’d lie through your teeth. You felt you had no choice, Ashley’s threat ringing in your ears.

Resume, bare ass, tossed salad...

Oh yeah, it’s going great! They’re all super flexible. I couldn’t be happier!

At least that pun made you feel a little better about hiding the shame of what you’ve allowed yourself to take on.

This was all in the first few weeks. It started to get a little easier after that, which is surprising considering more was added to your to-do list.

You should have moved on before starting. But, for whatever asinine reason, you didn’t.

Every time you go back to your apartment and assess your appearance in the bathroom mirror, you wonder who’s making who up here. He’s changing your looks more than you are his. You’re like his human doll.

You’ve put up with a lot over the years, but this takes the cake and shoves it in your face. As fucked as it is, the flavor is growing on you. Like a fungus. Growing, nonetheless.

You can’t stop thinking about him.

It’s innocent enough, you try convincing yourself. Making sure you have the right outfit laid out the night before, the right lunch (no onions or fish or anything “freaky”!), etc. He is your superior, after all. You shouldn’t be viewing him in any other light.

He’s the most frustrating aspect of your existence these days, but he’s also the one you’re around the most. His penchant for workplace gossip and how unintentionally funny he is tends to make him palatable, which has regrettably become an understatement.

Months go by. You’ve witnessed how alone he truly is. How he has nothing outside of performing his tricks on Vought’s all-encompassing stage. And when he begins asking for your input, starts doing things for you that are so blatant it’s perplexing, you find your stress and vexation melting into cumbersome fascination.

It’s embarrassing. You don’t have the courtesy of enough time to dwell on your feelings toward the situation either, from beginning to whatever end you might be met with. You suppose that could be beneficial in the long run.

It also hits you when you least expect it; when you really don’t want it to.

Your body doesn’t wait until you finally have a moment alone. It decides, while you’re helping Homelander with his skincare routine that he insisted upon because you know more than these vacuous corporate douche-bags, to heat up without warning and slither from your head to your heart until it grasps you unfairly between your legs.

You try not to step into momentary paralysis. You understand to what extent his powers reach. It’s not like he doesn’t go on and on about them. About himself.

Whatever he notices, it’s not right away. A palpable tension fills the air between the two of you eventually. But it takes a more significant amount of time than you would have anticipated to permeate the natural flow of things.

Fuck, you can’t even be safe inside here, where your thoughts, whatever they may be, are yours. You can’t even have yourself. He has every part of you, and you are willingly relinquishing that control.

Your evening, once you can have it, consists of combing over every decision you’ve made leading up to this strange, disorienting space you find yourself occupying. All it does is leave you exasperated in a much different way than before and with an unsettling observation (or hallucination):

Was that the tail end of the American flag outside your window?

You are unacceptably late.

Rushing around, you throw on the first top and bottoms you see from your closet and spritz some perfume on your neck and wrists. You don’t check your phone. You’re afraid of what will pop up on your screen. And, frankly, you don’t have the time.

Your only option for transportation is the subway, as you’re sure the special vehicle from Vought is long gone. Why would they wait for someone like you, even if you’re practically Homelander’s personal assistant? One of his only friends. You doubt he has more than Black Noir, and that isn’t as perfect as it appears to the casual viewer.

You dread what kind of explosion you’re without a doubt walking into once you show your miserable ass up. You’re going to smell like everyone on this train. He’s going to go ballistic.

The question remains: why are you continuing to put yourself through this? It’s not your circus, yet somehow, the monkeys have become your liability.

You know, deep down, what keeps you going back. It’s simply too ridiculous to admit aloud.

Making your way past security, hurriedly presenting your badge, you realize you forgot to brush your teeth, or at the very least, gargle some mouthwash. You thank your lucky stars when you open your purse to a pack of gum tucked away in one of the compartments.

It will have to do.

When you open the door to Homelander’s dressing room, you see a couple of employees standing near the counter where the bag of supplies has been opened and rifled through, looking like they might soil themselves, a frantic Ashley, and an extremely pissed off Homelander in the middle of it all.

Reflexively, you cringe. You attempt to wipe any trace from your features, but it’s too late. Ashley is glaring daggers at you and Homelander can hardly bring himself to look in your direction. The others don’t matter to you. They never did.

“I’m so sorry I’m late. I know there’s no excuse-”

“You’re goddamned right, there’s no excuse! I don’t give a shit if god and his whole fucking choir of angels came down from heaven and divinely called you to give them a makeover! What were you thinking?!”

You’re about to answer, though you comprehend her query is more or less rhetorical. She interrupts your slightly open mouth while gesturing wildly, proving your point.

“Oh, that’s right! You weren’t thinking at all, were you?! But I do believe you’ve thought long and hard about what’s at stake here. And you know damn well we at Vought don’t tolerate this kind of sloppy behavior. Not to mention the way you’re dressed! It’s adding insult to injury!” Her hand swipes at the air, the length of your outfit, and you glance down, recognizing how comically mismatched you are. Her correct observation affects you more than it would have months prior, stinging your ego- one of the many things that’s been shelved in order to accommodate the person who won’t even grace you with a glance.

A dramatic groan cuts short any further commentary from the redhead, perpetually stretched thin between her absurd duties.

“Jesus Christ, Ashley, why are your big fucking horse gums still flapping?” Homelander’s booming voice slices through your mind like a jarring, dense migraine. He pinches his brow between middle finger and thumb, eyes closed. “I want you and Tweedledee and Tweedledum t’get the fuck out. Now.”

Ashley is plainly dumbfounded, struggling to see where she went wrong (a pattern when it comes to dealing with the volatile leader of The Seven), mouth agape. She shakes her head. “But sir, are you-?”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about or doing. Clearly.”

Ms. Barrett turns a shade paler, staring at Homelander and blinking owlishly before snapping herself out of her stupor. She hurries her lackeys out of the room, shooing them along like a pair of misbehaving toddlers. She doesn’t give a final look, no further warning. She merely shuts the door behind her.

You also hear it lock.

What the hell does she think is going to happen?

You should have stopped this while you had the chance. You should have never taken this job. You should have stood up for yourself and walked out. You should have you should have you should-

“Who the fuck do you think you are?”

His caustic tone sends shivers down your spine. It’s unlike anything you’ve heard come out of him. And you’ve heard enough.

Again, you open your mouth. It fills with blood, thick and metallic and more potent than the mint from your gum. You’re silenced by it.

He stalks toward you and grabs you hastily by the shoulders, swiveling you around so you’re face-to-face with the choices you’ve made. Your mirrored image is reflected back at you, exhausted and searching for any last shred of who you might be beneath his heavy palms.

“Look at yourself! Do you even recognize who’s staring back at you?” No.

“What kind of game are you playing, hmmm? Is this… humiliating spectacle you’re putting on for the money? Your pathetic career? Like it’s goddamned rocket science to pick up a can of hairspray and use it. Monkeys have hands.” He makes a noise that’s akin to a snorting horse, exhaling forcefully past his nostrils. “I mean, did you really think you could pull a fast one on me?” He clutches your jaw, squeezing it between middle and thumb. Every muscle in your body tenses, your heart picking up rhythm.

“Spit that fucking gum out. Don’t think I can’t hear you grinding it between your molars like a dumb animal. You aren’t a mama bird, are you? Y’don’t have cute little baby birds t’force-feed your regurgitated leftovers, do you? Eugh, gross.”

You take a deep breath and exhale through your nose. It presents you with a false sense of security. You do as you’re told, and it lands on the floor in front of your shoe, saliva dangling on a thread as withered as your sanity.

Suddenly fresh breath seems like the most insignificant issue, when Homelander himself once made it out to be something earth-shattering.

You’re such a fool.

He leans in and sniffs your throat. Your fingers lengthen and bend.

You’re so many things at once. Confused, angry, nervous, scared. And, to your dismay, warm. God you’re so fucking warm. He’s heating you up from the inside out. You clench your jaw, still held in place by a firm bind.

“Get rid of those ugly clothes. I don’t care what you have to do. I can’t stand the sight or smell of them.”

You shut your eyes. When you open them, all you see is red. The other emotions are smothered in favor of that brand of heat. What happens next is a blur. You temporarily leave yourself.

“Fine. Have it your way, Homelander. You always do.”

Breaking free of his fluctuating hold, you start tearing at what you’re wearing, tossing everything- including your bra and underwear- to the ground. Your shirt winds up with the gum sticking to its loose fabric. You even take your shoes and socks off, not paying any heed to where your belongings go. Just that they’re gone.

You don’t process the glaring fact that you made yourself naked in front of your boss. In front of the most powerful man this country, and possibly world, has known. You don’t care that things have escalated this far. That they shouldn’t have. They shouldn’t have. But guess what? They did. And these are the consequences you both have to deal with.

“You wanna know what game I’m playing?” You turn around, forcing him backward. “It’s funny, I thought you’d be able to answer that for me, considering all the hoops I’ve had to jump through to not only save my ass, but make sure you had someone to talk to at the end of the day! Who on your team can you say goes above and beyond like that for you?!” He blinks at you now, eyes wide. Features fall to the floor where your clothes reside. You have his full and undivided attention.

An impressively dangerous thing to have.

“What more do you want from me, Homelander? I practically live with you without any of the benefits that usually includes! You’re really going to stand here and berate me like I haven’t given you fucking everything you’ve ever asked me for? Because I made one mistake? I gave up my entire world, which I know doesn’t mean shit to you. But it does to me.”

You fold your arms over your chest. Nothing covers it. You have to know before you lose all dignity. So you ask once more, hoping it won’t get lost in this bizarre mess.

“What do you want from me?”

Nothing. He can’t stop staring at you. You aren’t aware enough to be ashamed, but you are aware enough to be upset.

His infuriating silence compels you to bend down and gather what was a barrier between the two of you. You are no longer needed if he can’t do what he does best, which is spout off, leaking bottled words everywhere like a broken faucet. It’s a pretty simple question, you think.

That’s when the glass behind you shatters.

You flinch, pause what you’re doing and slowly stand. Cautious in whatever your next approach will be.

Surveying the aftermath, you’re relieved to find that you’re far enough away from the mirror so no injuries were inflicted.

When you finally lock eyes with the source, you see red. The atmosphere surrounding you heaves like the distended belly of a rotting corpse; hisses like an overflowing tea kettle; pierces you like lightning.

Homelander’s expression is rigid. His jaw quivers. Irises are a bright, shining scarlet. If you try anything rash, you might be next. But, having been around him for so long, you’re more inclined to believe he’s having trouble processing his own emotions. And that might have been one of the only ways to release them.

You drop the top and pants you managed to reclaim. Your brain hasn’t fully recovered from the constant devastating hit it’s taken, so you don’t want to put a name to what’s pushing you forward. You don’t stop until you’re directly in his line of vision.

Swallowing, you carefully extend your hand. The ruby color begins to crumble and give way to the vast ocean you might have drowned in one too many times. You lost track, blocking what you could out. Too real and intimate to accept for a realm that thrives off of inauthenticity and misfortune.

Homelander inhales harshly and you retreat, pupils hooking themselves to his. Searching for any sign you shouldn’t be right where you are.

Of course there are several; unfortunately, you are currently blind to them. Blind to everything but him.

That’s how it’s been for awhile, hasn’t it?

He has a habit of not granting you the luxury of time.

Quickly, he snatches your wrist and brings your palm flat against his cheek. He exhales, eyelids fluttering, nuzzling into you.

It’s so simple, yet it disarms you in ways you aren’t accustomed to.

Homelander basks in this chaste display of affection, and so do you, in awe of how enraptured he appears. Soaking you inside of his pores.

In turn, your cognizance reappears. You nearly topple over, realization infiltrating every part of you.

You’re not wearing a stitch.

A knock at the door startles you both. You glance over in that general direction and hear from the other side, “You’re on in fifteen, Homelander, sir!”

Gazing back up at him, you witness that same fire expand at a rapid rate. You use your other hand to bring him back down to reality, to ground him. It rests against his chest, delving into and cracking his ribs, flaying him open.

What strikes you is how vigorously his heart is beating. How you can feel it through his uniform.

This is how much you affect him. (Can you fathom that you’re only privy to a fraction?) Having evidence of the tiniest reciprocation drains you of any unwanted discomfort.

His fury subsides. You breathe out. He does, too.

“Go sit in your chair. I came here to do my job, after all.” The tenderness with which you speak seems to ease him further, his shoulders deflating with each word.

That aside, you’re playing with a lit match. You’re unsure who’s going to set who ablaze, but you’re willing to go down with this entire building to find out.

He does as he’s told, watching you the whole way like a mutilated mixture of a snarling cornered animal and a man fervently in love. He almost trips into his seat, not an ounce of grace in his gait.

Sacrificing his entire image just to get a glimpse of you.

Whipping his cape to the side, he sinks into the cushion. You get things ready as you typically do, your movements a bit jittery from the adrenaline sending haphazard jolts to your limbs. Despite this, you’re focused. You are more focused than you remember ever being.

You work efficiently, keeping in mind the limit that’s been put on your time.

Homelander bores holes through you. He doesn’t need lasers for that. You’re exposed and vulnerable and he pries what he fostered apart until it’s distinguishable by no one else but him.

You relearn his perfectly manufactured features. Different lights shape shadows you either haven’t seen before or feigned ignorance of. You commit to memory how he looks, smells, feels, the side of your hand grazing his cheek and hanging on.

He’s invigorating, your excitement building to a crescendo you can’t neglect. The heat in your core disperses, most of it congregating low in your belly and behind your expanding rib cage. His pupils drink you in, urgently and violently.

Your arousal is heady. He licks his lips. A hint of a whine caresses your ears and it makes you dizzy.

How could you have ever denied yourself?

You decide to take further control, testing the waters to a greater extent.

It’s your turn to watch him the whole way down. You straddle him, easing yourself atop his taut thighs.

After a few moments of humoring yourself, of pretending to concentrate on your work, dusting his nose with powder, you straighten. Eye contact has not been severed.

You motion toward his hands, balled into tense, repressed fists at his sides.

“Take off your gloves.”

Initially, it feels like maybe you said the wrong thing, or said it the wrong way. He doesn’t budge. You’re patient, however, so you wait like you’ve always done, the warmth from your cunt mingling with the hardness beneath you. Your mouth waters.

At last, Homelander nods and removes his gloves, tugging on the index of each. He places them on the armrests and transfixes himself to you once more.

“Do you want to touch me?” you ask, voice and body staying impossibly still in spite of your nerves.

Immediately, he shakes his head, “Yes,” the first time he’s spoken since your outburst, and without hesitation, reaches for your chest. You close your eyes, falling into his snooping lifts and tugs and squeezes, giving yourself permission to become possessed by the inhibited imaginations of how selfish, how rapacious his touches might be. How smooth his bare hands are, how ardent each digit is.

Leaning into you, he sucks one nipple into his mouth and palms the other, moaning and vibrating against your flesh. He digs his fingers into the pliant softness of your hip, steadying you with disciplined pressure. You squirm, attuned to every minuscule shift.

The lit match is tilted toward you now, swift and stunning. Your fingers release the brush you’ve been holding. It aligns with the slit of the cushion, forgotten and purposeless.

You wrap your digits around the hand on your curves and guide him toward your throbbing center. He doesn’t fight you. Doesn’t stop your movements. Doesn’t scold or challenge you. Instead, he curls his fingers in a way that makes you unabashedly moan, cupping your folds and pinning his thumb to your clit, adapting to your anatomy.

Your wants.

It seems like breaking away from you is a daunting task, but he does for a moment, brow furrowed, more engrossed and invested than you’ve ever witnessed.

“Fuck.” The curse sounds downright edible, your new favorite flavor. Your name tumbles from his lips like he’s been practicing, a sweet, rich icing on top. You gasp, his tongue adhering to you again, swirling around your peak before lightly biting it.

Rocking your hips back and forth, side-to-side, you grind hard into his palm. He strokes you like he’s studied what pace you prefer, how much friction you crave. You’re so wet, even you’re thrown off by it.

Once he’s finished with your chest, he’s back against the seat, unable to peel his gaze from you. Your full, swollen, glistening breasts.

His mouth hangs open, obscene, desperate whimpers slipping from it. Pupils are like whirlpools that drive you under. Drive you mad.

Homelander adeptly slips two, three digits inside your sopping cunt, unrelenting in his intentions to make up for lost time. The voracity of his actions propels you forward, balancing against his chest. He grasps and pulls at your other hip, groaning loudly in your ear, confirming his approval of how close you are to him.

It’s still not enough.

Pulling you even tighter to his blinding sun of a body, he encloses his free arm around you and desperately bucks his waist. “I want… I want… I want…” he chants. Your nails drag up his neck and along his scalp, overwhelmed by his warmth, his scent, him. Your lips ghost the sliver of skin above his collar, making him growl.

You anticipate and dread and yearn for what’s been building for so long. You clench and release, clench and release, clench and release, body chanting with him.

You’re intuitively thankful for the chair’s sturdiness; however, if it would have collapsed, you’re honestly not sure you would have noticed. Or cared.

You hear him come first. Feel the temperature rise temporarily. It’s so sudden and all-consuming that you naturally follow, his name an instinct you can’t help but divulge. You haven’t come down from the turbulent emotions rushing through you earlier, and that combination catapults you over the edge.

Your orgasm draws more deliberate, vehement grunts and sighs of satisfaction from him, as if your pleasure is inexplicably the same or worth more than his.

You can’t crumple into a boneless heap like you want to. You just can’t. You have to look at him. Look at his bliss; the glazed, barren-yet-so-full-of-you expression, of what these months of working in close quarters have done to him.

What you uncover is not what you were picturing. There’s a mixture of that haze with something almost apologetic below the teeming surface. Clouds of red to skies of blue. Destructive in and of themselves.

Sliding his fingers from your wetness, he wraps his lips around each one that was inside of you and spreads them apart. Your slick sticks to his glossy skin and stretches between digits, a generous amount. You whimper at the loss- the emptying, hollow feeling- and watch, mesmerized and delirious as he savors you.

Swallowing you whole, Homelander sweeps his knuckles across the apple of your cheek and presses his lips hard against yours. He wastes no time inhaling your gasps and moans, licking your mouth and the faint taste of mint, stealing it from you. You ingest what you can of him as well, exploring what was open to you longer than you realized.

He then seizes your wrists. It’s a rough gesture that evaporates into gentle circles along your pulse points. Still, you know you’re going to bruise where he turned the key and locked you into place: wherever he is.

A visible sheen coats his lips.

“I want you to tell me I’m good. Great. The best.”

His breathing is labored. So is yours.

He kisses the inside of the wrist smeared with perfume, your fluids, his saliva; ends with your hand and rests his cheek against the slope of it.

“I want you to be mine. All mine. Mine alone.”

You’re shaking. He moves forward and pets your hair, twirls it; grabs your nape and holds his thumb to the front of your throat. Securing you. Keeping you there.

“You have to stay. Be mine and stay.”

You thrum with an ache he forced upon you. He’ll claim you were starving and he was the only one who could satiate.

You nod. You were never going to leave to begin with.

Homelander made you his. And you thanked him for it.

[hivemuthur]

In Thy Name - Ch.1. - Dark Entries

viktorxfemale!reader nothing filthy yet but will be :v, gothic AU

Reader is a highly renown linguist hired by Viktor, a paranormal investigator, for a case he cannot crack himself.

MASTERLIST next chapter ->

word count: 5,7K

author's note: Story time, it's boring, you can skip it. So: one day my cat dies. I start to write. Then, another day a person asks, can you write a Bridgerton AU? And I'm like yeh, sure, why not. It swells in my hands until I can't control it. From it blooms a crushing amount of beautiful artworks from you guys. Then, a person says, I like Victorian Era the most. The rest is history. I'm convinced that's how covid has started. If I ever end up doing a McDonald's AU hire a hitman and kill me painfully, make me fucking suffer. So, here you go, a gothic AU :') Playlist here! @rennethen and @mithrava thank you for beta-reading! And art, of course, by @cringemaster3!

Cross-posted on AO3

—

Surrounded by the scent of dust and the faint aroma of melting wax, you lurk in the academy’s library. What was once a sanctuary of solace now fails to provide the comfort you so desperately seek. In your hands, an envelope rests—its paper crisp and unmoved, despite the wear of its long journey. The wax seal bears the mark of a sharp V, devoid of ornamentation, one corner slightly crumpled, though you are certain you are the only one to notice.

Hidden among the towering rows of books, you grasp a letter knife, its blade gleaming faintly in the light of the candelabras. You regard it as though it were a life you were about to claim— as if it were not merely paper that would yield to your blade, but something far darker, its insides spilling only words, no organs to be bled.

Wincing, expecting red to spill from its violently torn mouth, nevertheless, you open the letter, still unbelieving that the V might mean what your mind has conjured. The paper inside is equally crisp, as though it had arrived directly from the pocket it was kept in, folded neatly, and its bloody insides glare at you in sharp, elegant strokes of a fountain pen.

13th of October 1851

Greetings,

I trust this letter finds you in good health, though it is with some urgency that I extend my proposal to you. I have been made aware of your commendable accomplishments in the field of linguistics, and I am of the belief that your expertise would prove invaluable for a certain task that I currently undertake.

Should you be amenable, I wish to offer you a temporary contract under the following terms:

A fair monetary payment, the sum of which can be discussed upon your acceptance.

Provision of food and shelter for the duration of your engagement.

The understanding that your services will be required until the task at hand is resolved.

This offer shall remain valid for a period of ten days from the receipt of this letter. After this period, the proposition will no longer stand, and I shall seek other avenues to fulfil the task.

Should you accept, I expect you at your earliest convenience.

Yours sincerely,

Viktor Velesny

You read the letter thrice, your hands trembling ever so slightly as you unfurl its edges, the sharp, crisp folds of parchment yielding to your touch. The words blur, then sharpen in your vision, each stroke of ink etching itself deeper into your mind with every passing glance. The third reading is out loud, your voice sounding foreign to you, hoarse and thick from hours of silence in the library. You had feared opening it for seven days, dread mingling with an eagerness you could not wholly suppress. The envelope, now empty of its contents, still weighed heavily in your palm. With only three days left, you knew tonight was the last opportunity to make a decision. You could either close the book on it entirely or surrender yourself to whatever unknown awaited you at his mansion.

For days you had worked relentlessly, pushing your research on ancient Greek texts to its absolute limits, your fingers aching from the effort. But it had not been clairvoyance that drove you to finish; no, it was the whispers that travelled faster than any letter. Gossip—blistering, scalding gossip—had swept through the academic halls like wildfire, and the tale of Viktor Velesny seeking external aid, however vague and fleeting, had reached your ears before he’d even put ink to parchment. The notion of this strange request—coming from a man whose reputation already stirred both dread and intrigue—had made its way to you before you even realised it.

You pointed a figurative finger to three other colleagues, even though you knew, deep down, that this particular invitation would ultimately find its way to you. It had to. As it arrived, your heart quickened in a strange mixture of fear and excitement, your colleagues' inquisitive eyes watching, perhaps with the faintest trace of envy or disbelief. Some were astonished at your consideration, others appalled you hadn't immediately leapt at the opportunity. That look—the one that lingered long after they caught wind of this peculiar summons—reminded you of the well-known truth: people were intrigued by the unknown, yet they feared it just the same.

And Viktor Velesny? The subject of this gossip? His reputation preceded him like a ghost, each whisper darker than the last.

Some spoke of him as a conman, a trickster who built his name on the broken backs of others’ credulity. He was said to be a charlatan, one who sold illusions of grandeur, pretending at knowledge he did not possess, preying on those desperate enough to trust his word. He was known to swindle patrons with false promises, only to disappear as swiftly as he’d arrived, leaving behind a trail of victims too ashamed to speak of their losses. His name was tied to failed endeavours, to reputations destroyed, to whispered accusations of dishonesty that always seemed to vanish into thin air, just as quickly as they were spoken.

Others, however, viewed him as a mad scientist, a delusional visionary whose fevered mind spun tales of grandiose ambition. The more extreme among his critics claimed he was a man who flirted with the very edge of reason, throwing his humanity aside for the sake of uncovering the forbidden knowledge that could undo the natural laws themselves. His obsession with the occult, with science, with all things esoteric and unnatural, bordered on madness. They spoke of experiments gone awry, of strange and twisted works that few dared to witness. Was he truly a genius, or was he simply a madman too lost in his own pursuit of the unknown?

And then there were the darker rumours—the faintest voices murmuring of a man of no honour, a man who would descend into the deepest circles of hell to fulfil his sickening ambitions. Dangerous. Delusional. A man who had supposedly sold his very soul to the devil in exchange for powers beyond mortal comprehension. Few dared to speak these words aloud, for to do so was to risk their reputation—or worse, their very sanity. Those who whispered of his brilliance did so in hushed tones, almost afraid that the mere utterance of his name would invite calamity. Some believed he was more than human, that he had crossed a threshold no one should ever cross, and that to aid him was to invite a curse upon oneself.

Your cheek is relentlessly chewed, your lips reddened from being constantly pressed together as you try to read this mysterious man’s intentions, deciphering them only from the curvature of the letters he’s bled in ink. From what you can comprehend, this is a linguistic investigation into something he cannot complete on his own. The unknown time frames for the endeavour unnerve you especially, but what excites you—this feeling crowns over all others—is the challenge.

An opportunity like that comes perhaps once in a lifetime, and the thought of spending another couple of decades—if you were so lucky—waiting for another after letting this one slip from your grasp fills you with no hope.

With trembling fingers, you dip the pen into the ink jar and scribble only a few words, the quiver in your hand preventing you from writing more.

20th of October 1851

Dear Mr. Velesny,

I accept.

Yours sincerely,

Jane Hathorne

Your name is signed with a flourish countering Viktor’s reserve with letters. Then, you blow out the candles and call for a messenger.

***

You spend the following day wrapping up last-minute errands and packing your trunk. The woman in you mourns all the garments you cannot fit, while the researcher side scolds her, insisting on taking as many books and papers as possible. They eventually reach a compromise by introducing another trunk to your previously planned, limited inventory.

It is only when you are about to step into the carriage that one of your colleagues comes running into the rain after you. The sound of your name echoes across the academy courtyard, and a few heads twist on their necks as eyes snap and ears perk up, eager to drink in the latest gossip.

“Have I forgotten something?” you ask, startled.

“No, I—” John, one of the few souls kind enough not to talk behind your back, stumbles out of the building’s mouth, chasing after you as if his life depends on it. “Are you certain you wish to go?”

“Oh. Yes, quite certain.”

“What if—” He hesitates, eyes darting with concern.

“What if? Do you fear for my health?”

“I’ve heard terrible things about him, you know,” he says, voice low but urgent.

“You and me both,” you reply with a sardonic smile. “And great things. And absolutely ridiculous things. So, if half of everything is true, he adds up to an utterly mediocre man.”

John looks unsure, wringing his hands as the rain soaks his coat. “Will you write?”

“Weekly. I will,” you promise, forcing a more reassuring smile. “You needn’t worry.”

He looks like he wants to say more, but finally nods, his concern still written across his face. “I’ll hold you to that.”

With a final nod, you step into the carriage, leaving behind the academy—and John’s worried gaze—just as the rain begins to fall heavier. In its warm cloister, you drown in what you do best—research.

The texts before you vary in nature, some profoundly enlightening, others more dubious in their claims. There are scientific treatises, dense and methodical, dissecting the latest advancements in physiology and human anatomy—works penned by Viktor himself, sharp and logical, written with a mind that had clearly observed and analysed the minutiae of life with a surgeon's precision. You find his approach to medicine both bold and exhilarating, especially in his attempts to bridge the gap between the known and the unknown.

Interspersed with these are his more obscure writings, some of which veer into the realms of the occult. One text, On the Nature of the Soul and Its Astral Travels, delves into theories of spiritual manifestations and possession—strange, perhaps, but compelling in its rational structure. Another, The Resurrection of the Dead: The Theory of Reanimation, blends pseudoscience with arcane knowledge, positing that the key to immortality lies in unlocking the hidden potentials of the human body, a claim that strains credulity, yet has an undeniable allure.

Alongside these, you pore over an assortment of occult texts that were allegedly penned under Viktor’s tutelage or at least influenced by his growing fascination with the supernatural. The Aether and Its Influence on the Material World, written in florid prose, is far less scientific than his medical texts, but nonetheless an intoxicating read. You find yourself drawn to the rhythm of the language, and even as you question the plausibility of the claims within, you cannot help but be captivated by the intensity of the author's convictions.

And then there are the darker ones—tales of demonology, possession, and the dead who walk amongst us. The Unseen World: The Threshold Between Life and Death is a chilling account of the various occult practices that Viktor had reportedly studied, exploring ghostly apparitions and the interaction between the living and the dead. Some of it makes sense, neatly fitting into the framework of what you know of the natural world. But others… well, they stretch the boundaries of reason so far that they threaten to snap.

What connects them all, however, is their sheer passion. The fervour with which they are written grips you, pulling you deeper into the labyrinth of Viktor's thoughts and obsessions. Whether grounded in science or swirling in the more dubious realms of the supernatural, each text is a window into a mind that pursues knowledge with an almost feverish determination, unafraid to venture into realms others might consider madness. You find yourself lost in them, turning page after page, unable to pull away from the intense, consuming brilliance that flows through every sentence.

Impressed, is what you are at first. As a linguist, of course, most of all, you admire his ability with words, drawing his reader right into the realms of his mind. Intimidated, comes second, as Viktor begins to grow in your thoughts into a man who will indeed stop at nothing to satiate his passion and curiosity.

One of the treaties bears a picture—it is a portrait of Viktor, you presume. His expression is intense, almost ferocious in its focus, the kind of look that suggests he is not just observing the world, but dissecting it with a hunger that goes beyond simple understanding. His eyes are bright, sharp, as if they could see straight through to the very marrow of things, and they stare out of the page with an unsettling intensity. His features are aristocratic—high cheekbones, a square jaw, and sharply defined nose with a slight curve to it. His dark hair is neatly combed back, but there is a wildness to the way it catches the light, as if it rebels against being tamed, much like its owner. Two dark spots mark his face, decorating his undereye, and oh—his lips. Those you don’t dare to look at for too long.

The portrait captures him in an almost unnatural stillness, the kind of quiet that precedes a storm. His posture is upright, rigid, a man of discipline. Yet, his hands—gloved, resting on a cane—seem poised on the verge of motion. The background is dimly lit, offering no distractions, leaving Viktor’s imposing figure to dominate the frame. The entire picture is bathed in shadow, except for a faint light that seems to follow the contour of his face, highlighting the sharpness of his features and the gleam in his eyes.

It's a haunting image. An impression of a man driven by something darker, deeper—an insatiable desire for knowledge, perhaps, or something far more dangerous. There is an undeniable allure in the way he is depicted, a magnetic pull that you cannot put a finger on.

You trace a gloved touch through the paper, trying to read more into it. Your heart flutters when the carriage jolts over a cat’s head, and the parchment falls from your hand. With your mind full of ideas and presumptions, you decide to lean against the window and spend the rest of your journey memorizing the images flashing past.

And those, too, grow progressively more unfamiliar. The landscape outside the window unfolds like a painting, drenched in the muted light of the fading afternoon. The sky, heavy with brooding clouds, casts a pallor over the earth, as though the very air trembles in anticipation of something inevitable. The fields roll in endless waves of withered grass, their once-vibrant green now a weary brown, hanging on to life with a final breath before the frost comes to claim them. The hills, distant and indifferent, stretch out like weary bones, sloping gently, only to fall into a vast, oppressive nothingness—a barren, lifeless expanse that stretches endlessly before you. The land seems to sag under its own weight, as if the very earth itself has given up hope, awaiting the final kiss of winter's cold embrace.

The gloom thickens, devouring what little warmth remains in the air, until the world outside becomes a blank canvas—void, desolate, and endless. In the midst of this eerie silence, a dark shape slowly begins to emerge on the horizon, its form rising like a spectre from the desolation. A shadow, strong and commanding, breaks the monotony of the emptiness—the shape of Viktor’s home. Its silhouette looms against the darkening sky, an imposing presence rising out of the desolation, a dark monument to something unknown. Its walls, heavy with the weight of secrets, stand like a watchful sentry, ready to consume you whole.

It stands alone—a place that seems to absorb the very light around it, as if it exists in a perpetual twilight. The closer it draws, the more foreboding it becomes, pulling you into its vast, dark heart. And as the carriage moves ever closer, you wonder if the land itself, stretching out in weary despair, is simply a reflection of what lies within.

Your chin slides off your hand as the carriage approaches the main gates. A tall, stiff butler steps out, holding a black umbrella, ready to escort you the ten steps that part you from your future. He keeps his gaze lowered as he walks toward the vehicle, opens the door for you, and—before greeting you—swings the umbrella open.

“My lady,” he says, bowing his head. “Allow me to escort you. Master Velesny awaits you.”

“Oh, I take it the messenger got here safely?” you ask, taking his hand as you step out of the carriage onto the muddy ground.

“Yes, and he arrived with haste, for which Master Velesny is grateful,” the butler replies with practiced politeness and signals to two young footmen to take care of your bags. “I see you come prepared, my lady. Allow the boys to handle your luggage.”

“Ah, yes, forgive me—I couldn’t decide which books would be useful,” you say, neglecting to mention that one trunk is, in fact, full of velvets, not books. “May I ask your name?” you say, craning your neck, trying to take the house in.

Beyond the rim, the mansion looms—a stark silhouette against the slate-grey sky. Its façade, once grand, is softened by time; ivy clings to the stone, withered by autumn’s touch, its skeletal tendrils retreating from the ornate window frames. The first floor boasts tall, pointed arch windows, their leaded glass darkened by the overcast day. Above, a row of smaller lancet windows punctuates the steeply pitched roofline, lending the structure a solemn air. At its highest point, a narrow tower rises—a third level in miniature—its presence lending the house an air of quiet vigilance rather than menace. A pair of weathered statues flank the entrance, their faces softened by rain and years, watching as you step forward.

“Certainly, my lady. My name is Algernon Griffiths, and I have been in Master Velesny’s service for many years.” Butler’s voice makes your head snap back. He talks with pride as the rain drums against the stretched black membrane, and ensures you remain completely shielded from the drops, though his own shoulder is undoubtedly gathering dampness. “I am at your service whenever you may need me as well.”

“Thank you, Algernon, that’s—” You pause as you both step through the main door.

The hall is… intimidating and impressive at once. Something vaguely unsettling nestles in your throat at the strange shadows cast by the flickering candelabras, and you notice that not all of them are lit. Some remain empty of candles, while others hold fresh, unused wax, presumably reserved for the evening hours. Yet even in the husky daylight of this gloomy day, the space remains dark.

The ceiling stretches high above your head, where a wrought-iron chandelier hangs, its spiked ornamentation promising a clean kill to anyone unfortunate enough to be standing beneath it should it fall from its hook.

A curved double staircase straddles the far end of the hall, its dark wooden steps worn down at the edges near the winding handrail. The floor beneath your feet is polished to such a gloss that every sound bounces off it. And indeed, it is not the beauty of this space that has made you gasp, but the suffocating silence that presses against your ribs like a held breath.

“Master awaits you in the study, my lady,” Algernon urges gently, noticing your hesitation. “I assure you that you will be given a proper tour of the house and introduced to all the staff, but I’m afraid Mr. Velesny has insisted on escorting you upstairs as soon as you arrive.”

“Oh, certainly. Forgive me, it’s all very—” You gulp down the stale air and force a smile. “Enchanting.”

He nods, unimpressed, passes the umbrella to a footman, and extends his hand, motioning you up the staircase.

Your footsteps echo as you ascend, the creak of the worn wooden steps swallowed by the hush of the house. The balustrade curves beneath your gloved fingertips, polished but old, its edges softened by time and touch. The hall above yawns before you, lined with closed doors and dim sconces casting long, flickering shadows against the wallpaper—dark green, its pattern faded, some places curling at the seams.

The air is scented with books, wax and smoke, as if the house itself has been holding its breath for years. Your skirt brushes against the wooden floor, and the fabric's whisper is the only sound apart from the occasional groan of the planks beneath your feet.

At last, you reach a heavy wooden door, already ajar. Inside, dim afternoon light filters through the tall window, throwing pale, skeletal patterns across the floor. The scent of parchment and ink lingers here, richer, untainted by the cold draft of the corridor.

Algernon knocks anyway, his knuckles rapping lightly against the wood. “Master Velesny,” he announces, “your guest has arrived.”

Viktor stands by the window, his back to the door, gazing out into the grey afternoon. He does not turn fully, only angles his head, revealing his profile—sharp, as you’ve expected.

“Thank you, Algernon. That will be all for now.”

It is the sound that catches you off guard—something neither his writings nor the picture you studied in the carriage could have prepared you for. Heavy, thick, a slow roll of his tongue as it wraps around the vowels, his accent settling into the room tangibly. It complements his visage perfectly, and suddenly, you are grateful for the house’s silence, allowing his voice to echo undisturbed.

With a polite nod, Algernon steps back, retreating down the hall. The door closes with a soft click, sealing you inside the study.

As soon as it does, his shoulders slacken, and he turns to face you. His hands, bare, rest atop the handle of a cane. His stance is uneven, weight shifted onto one leg, his hips set at an angle beneath a pair of tightly fitted high-waisted trousers. A ruby velvet vest, its surface pressed with winding patterns, hugs his chest, and beneath it, a crisp white shirt peeks through. No cravat, you note—his high collar instead nudges against the sharp line of his jaw.

His throat peaks from thick material—a long, pale column, crowned by a chin that hangs low from his cheeks. His face is all sharp planes and hollowed angles, the skin stretched over pronounced bones beneath deep, sunken eyes. His brows, thick and furrowed, lend him an air of permanent concentration as he studies you—or, at least, you presume that he does.

And his eyes—oh. No picture, dulled in shades of grey, could have prepared you for them. Two rings of amber glide over your body, sharp and bright, like mead set aflame. Embarrassed, you drop your gaze, and it lands on his leg, hugged tightly by a contraption of metal and leather.

You shift, rid yourself of your cape, and wrap it around your forearms, suddenly hyper-aware of the weight of his gaze. If there are thoughts stirring behind those eyes, he does not betray them. His expression remains unreadable, sculpted into something close to stone.

"You took your time to reply," he says finally, blinking as slowly as an owl would. His voice curls around each syllable, daring.

"I... I had to run some errands before accepting," you reply, forcing yourself to maintain his gaze. Then, steadying your breath, you add, "I have met the deadline, have I not?"

"You have, for which I am grateful," he murmurs, his tone dipping lower. He takes a few measured steps toward you, graceful, you notice. Without breaking eye contact, he reaches for your hand, fingers cool as they close around yours. He lifts it to his lips, the warmth of his breath pressing through the fabric of your glove.

"It is a pleasure to meet you in the flesh, my lady," he mutters against your knuckles, eyes still locked onto yours when lips come to press against the thin leather.

"Have we met in the spirit, then, without my knowledge?" you ask, your voice lighter than you intend, a thread of uncertainty winding through it.

His lips curl into the shadow of a smirk. "Ah, if you wish to go that far," he muses, rising and tilting his head, yet not letting go of your palm. "I am familiar with your work. And if I allow myself some presumptions"—his thumb brushes briefly along the side of your hand—"such as this: if you are as meticulous in your spirit as you are in your craft, then I would expect you have done your share of research on me." His eyes glint. "Therefore, our spirits have met. Metaphorically, of course."

"Bold of you to presume this much, Mr. Velesny," you counter, though there is no denying the way his words have wound their way beneath your skin. Presumptuous and cunning, this man has your curiosity piqued.

"Have you expected me to be anything but?" His lips quirk at one corner, the ghost of amusement there before it fades into something gentler. "And please—call me Viktor."

You speak your name in response, and the moment it leaves your lips, his fingers tighten ever so slightly around yours. A slow squeeze. He smiles then, small but certain, as if tasting victory in the syllables.

Then, your hand is free, and Viktor turns toward the desk. Only now do you take in the room as it is—a cavernous space, dim, just as the rest of the house. Heavy drapes of deep burgundy frame mullioned windows, drawn back just enough to let in a reluctant sliver of day.

To your left, a fireplace yawns, unlit, its carved mantel adorned with a single brass candelabrum and a clock that ticks with an unsettling steadiness. The dark wood panelling along the walls bears the weight of countless bookshelves, their spines pressed tightly together, some worn to near illegibility, others pristine, their gilt titles catching what little light the room allows.

Viktor’s desk, positioned near the window, is a grand but cluttered thing—an ocean of scattered papers, maps, and instruments of his trade, the chaos strangely at odds with the meticulousness of the man himself. An oil lamp with a green glass shade casts a dull glow over the mess, illuminating the glint of a letter opener resting atop a half-folded letter.

A chair sits across from his own, clearly set for you. “Take a seat, please. This won’t take long,” Viktor says, gesturing with a tilt of his head. “You must be weary from your travels. I will leave the debrief for tomorrow, but I would like you to take a look at what we are dealing with.”

The we rings pleasantly in your ears—infuriatingly so—as you gather your skirts and lower yourself onto the chair. The leather creaks softly beneath you. Viktor does not sit. Instead, he leans over you, one hand braced on the cane, the other pointing a long, precise finger at the papers sprawled before you. His proximity is unexpected, his scent even more so—fresh, unadorned, untouched by perfume or powder. Like moss in an undisturbed forest. Freshwater drawn from a deep spring. Skin sunbathed and warm.

An insistent tap of his finger against the desk pulls you from your daze. You blink and focus on the papers. Letters—familiar yet unplaceable—are scrawled across countless sheets, some rough and uncertain, others more refined, as if Viktor had been attempting to capture them with increasing accuracy.

“This… looks like some proto-Slavic dialect,” you say slowly, tracing the edge of a page with your fingertip. Your brow furrows. “Forgive my bluntness, but have I wrongly assumed your accent to be Slavic?”

“Not at all. I am,” Viktor confirms, his voice smooth and clipped. His gaze flicks to the documents. “But this is no known language to me. I am at my wit’s end. Otherwise, I would not be calling for aid, as you may know.”

You nod, intrigued. “I have brought some books with me. We could compare sources tomorrow?”

“That would be perfect,” he says dryly, as if he’s expected you to do exactly that.

“How did you come across this?” you ask, glancing up at him.

“I was called upon for a job. Usual business. Seemed like a mediocre haunting at first.”

“Mediocre?” You tilt your head. “Are you truly this well-versed in ghosts, Viktor?”

His lips twitch, but it is not quite a smile. “Ah. By mediocre, I mean possibly a con,” he corrects. He shifts, standing upright again, his hands folding over the handle of his cane. “A family member trying to scare their relatives. A neighbour hoping to chase people away from valuable land. Hauntings of that sort are what I usually come across.”

“Usually, but not always?” you ask, studying him.

“Not always,” he replies offering nothing more.

“So… are you a myth buster, then?” you tease, watching him closely.

“No,” he says without hesitation, his golden eyes locking onto yours. “I am a truth seeker.”

His gaze is sharp—challenging—but something beneath it feels measured, a shield. You sense a restraint in him, a man who has learned to temper his own excitement, to speak in careful tones that reveal nothing. And you wonder—when was the last time he had the opportunity to speak with someone as an equal?

“But I suppose you have heard many names granted to me,” he continues, tone even. “A con man. A devil worshiper. A mad scientist.”

“I’ve also heard of your brilliance,” you offer quietly

“Ah,” his lips curve, knowing. You hope he doesn’t read it as a pity. “And which one do you think to be true?”

“I do not know yet.” You hold his gaze. “I suppose I will have to find out for myself?”

“That you will, hopefully.” He exhales, straightening, the flicker of an expression unknown to you vanishing as he retreats behind composure once more. “I shall keep you no longer. Algernon will give you a short tour and escort you to your rooms. Your luggage should already be there.”

It’s a gentle but firm dismissal, and soon after, Algernon returns, inclining his head and ushering you politely through the study door.

As he guides you down the dimly lit corridor, his steps are even, his voice smooth and practiced. “I shall show you the most necessary rooms first. There will be time for a proper exploration tomorrow, but for tonight, I believe you will wish to settle in, my lady.”

The first door he gestures toward reveals a vast library, lined floor to ceiling with shelves of aged leather-bound tomes. A single chandelier sways faintly above, its candlelight flickering against dark wood and gold filigree. A sturdy desk sits by the window, and near the hearth, two deep armchairs face one another, waiting for occupants who never came. The scent of dust fills the air.

Next is the music room. Though smaller than the library, it holds an air of quiet grandeur. A grand piano dominates the centre, its polished surface reflecting the dim light. A violin and cello rest nearby, their strings long untouched, and in the corner, a harp stands draped with a fine sheet, as if to protect it from time itself.

“The guest quarters are also on this floor,” Algernon notes, leading you past a series of doors. “Though I do not expect they will be occupied anytime soon.” He moves along without pausing.

Descending the staircase, the house’s shadows stretch in strange ways, the flickering sconces offering little comfort against the vastness of the halls. The dining room is stately yet stark—long enough to seat far more than its apparent master keeps for company. The drawing room, in contrast, is lived-in, with a decanter of dark amber liquid resting on a side table, books left slightly out of place on a chaise, and a few logs stacked beside the fireplace.

At last, Algernon stops by a set of wide glass doors leading into the winter garden. The panes are fogged, obscuring what lies beyond, but the skeletal shapes of vines press against the glass. “You may visit the garden tomorrow during daylight,” he says, his voice lowering slightly. “But not tonight. The day has been especially dark.”

His words are peculiar, but you say nothing.

When you come back one storey, Algernon points to another set of stairs, far less impressive than the main staircase. “The master’s chambers are upstairs,” he states simply, and you wonder why on earth Viktor would choose to climb two stories daily when he clearly uses the cane not only as an accessory.

As you continue, one door remains conspicuously closed, and Algernon makes no mention of it, his stride never faltering.

Instead, he turns to you. “The household staff is minimal but sufficient. A maid will attend to you in the mornings and evenings, should you require assistance.”

At last, he stops before your own quarters and steps aside, allowing you to enter first.

Your bedroom is unexpectedly inviting, with a large canopy bed draped in heavy fabric, its dark wood carved with intricate detailing. A fireplace rests along one wall, unlit, but stacked with fresh logs. A writing desk sits beneath a wide window, its curtains drawn, and across from it, a modest yet elegant wardrobe stands ready for use. A faint scent of lavender lingers in the air—perhaps a lingering touch from the maid who prepared it for you.

Algernon lingers just outside. “Dinner is served at six. If you require anything further, do not hesitate to ring.” A pause, then with a slight bow, he departs, closing the door behind him with a quiet finality.

And for the first time since your arrival, you are alone.

Wasting no time, you sit on the bed and kick your shoes off. You sigh deeply and heavily, stacking the events of today in your head. Viktor is... nothing and everything you expected. Driven, yes. Eager, even more than you anticipated. And still, he manages to remain reserved, as if torn between reaching out and closing in on himself. A sadness of some kind lingers around him, but you try to withhold your pity. Is he the demon they paint him to be, or the genius you wish him to be? You do not know, but you itch to find out.

[i-only-ever-asked-questions]

Updated! A few days ago the contract Crowley signs in S1 came up on discord. Being the crazy person that I am, I set on the quest of finding out what it actually says. I couldn't make out everything, especially at the end where Crowley's hand and the sparks obscure the lines but I made out most of it (transcript below the break).

One of the things I like the most is that the contract specifically says "Anthony Crowley of Mayfair, London." In the book, Hastur tells Crowley not to use that name: "No. Not A. J. Crowley. Your real name.” Crowley nodded mournfully, and drew a complex, wiggly sigil on the paper. It glowed redly in the gloom, just for a moment, and then faded."

Interesting things:

The contract is referred to as "the Agreement" - HA!

The contract is between Hastur and Ligur ("the Customer") and Crowley ("the Service Provider"). Not with Hell itself or with Satan.

The contract never actually says what "the Service" is nor does it say how much Crowley is supposed to be paid (so is it just delivering the baby to the convent, or all the upbringing too?)

There is a part that says Hastur and Ligur will pay the costs when the operation is done. But later on it also says that Crowley will not be reimbursed for his own expenses. Talk about being shortchanged!

Hastur and Ligur will NOT provide any help

Crowley must contribute to a retirement plan (Superannuation) for himself and his employees if he has any (how thoughtful)

And lastly, I learned the UK has Superannuations and it is not just an Australian thing! (go figure! the things GO teaches me)

So here you have it. A contract from Hell! literally If anyone can make out the words I couldn't or finds an error, please let me know and I'll update this one.

Full transcript:

[Line covered by clip and Ligur’s fingers] (the "Agreement")

BETWEEN

HASTUR AND LIGUR of HELL (the "Customer")

AND

ANTHONY J CROWLEY of MAYFAIR LONDON (the "Service Provider")

BACKGROUND a. The Costumer is of the opinion that the Service Provider has the necessary qualifications experience and abilities to provide services for the Customer. The Costumer will pay the Service Provider per project agreed. Each project has its own costs and the Service Provider agrees to inform the Customer what are the costs involved when setting the operation and the Costumer agrees to pay the total amount when the project is delivered. b. The Compensation will be payable upon completion of the Services. The Service Provider is responsible for paying any Superannuation Guarantee contributions that may be required in relation to the work performed by the Service Provider or by the employees of the Service Provider under this Agreement c. The above Compensation includes all applicable sales tax, and dues as required by law

Provision of Extras a. The Customer will not provide any resources, assistance or extra for use by the Service Provider in providing the Services Reimbursement of Expenses b. The Service Provider will not be reimbursed for expenses incurred by the Service Provider in connection with providing the Services of this Agreement. Independence of Services c. In providing the Sevices under the Agreement it is expressly agreed that the Service Provider is acting as an independent contractor and not as an employee. The Service Provider and the Customer acknowledge that the Agreement does not create a partnership or joint venture between them, and is exclusively a contract for service

Notes a. All suits, requests, demands or other communication required or permitted by the terms of this Agreement by will be given in writing and delivered to the Parties of the Agreement as follows

ANTHONY J CROWLEY of MAYFAIR LONDON

HASTUR AND LIGUR of HELL

and each [Illegible words due to Crowley’s hand] notify the other.

[ILLEGIBLE WORD]

ANTHONY J CROWLEY

[houstonessays]

Overcoming Common Grammar and Writing Mistakes with the Help of Term Paper Writing Service

Writing and grammar errors can ruin a student's academic career. These mistakes can impair the professionalism and clarity of your work, resulting in poorer scores and lost learning chances. However, a lot of pupils find it difficult to recognize and fix their errors on their own. Term paper writing services can be useful in this situation.

https://www.reddit.com/user/HoustonEssay/comments/187fdaq/overcoming_common_grammar_and_writing_mistakes/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web2x&context=3

[rainrot4me]

Would you think that Brian/Hoody would have been in a fraternity back in college? And would he have had a LOT of girlfriends (maybe a bit of boyfriends) back then?

Idk. He gives me fuckboy player vibes. LMAO

As a sorority girl, I have had MY FAIR SHARE of sweet, terrible, and painfully average frat men who think they rule campus. So, here’s how our sweet Hoody/Brian would have been:

๑ Warning: Alcohol, mentions of hookups + orgies, frat men *eyeroll*

── .✦

✦ . Would Brian/Hoody have been in a fraternity back in college? Yes, but not the stereotypical kind.

He’s around 20 and strikes me as the kind of guy who joined a smaller, more academic or service-based fraternity rather than a loud party frat. Maybe something like Alpha Phi Omega (which is co-ed and service-focused), or a media/film-based one if we’re sticking close to his Marble Hornets backstory where he was into video production. He’s smart, resourceful, and plays the long game, even before he became a lunatic. He really wanted to get his stuff straight and prepared for when he entered the work-force, unknowing that he would never even make it to graduation. He’d absolutely get involved in something that helped him make connections, gain access to equipment, or boost his résumé… without needing to down a keg every night.

That said, he could easily blend in with the party crowd when he needed to. He’s observant, knows how to fake being interested in random people’s conversations, and could have friends in those spaces, but probably kept a low profile in terms of actual commitment. He’s very good about holding a red-solo cup in one hand, stuffing the other in his jean pocket, and watching the rest of the crowd mix and mingle. If someone comes up to talk, he won’t turn them away, but he won’t try to carry a lengthy conversation either.

✦ . Would he have had a lot of girlfriends (and maybe boyfriends) back then? Yeah, his fair share, but a little more unconventional.

Brian would’ve had a mysterious, magnetic presence that drew people in. He’s quiet but intense, the kind of guy who listens more than he talks, makes eye contact that lingers a little too long, and knows exactly when to say something that hits deep. So, yes, he would’ve had his fair share of romantic or sexual flings, but not in an obvious, showy way. He’s not a brag-about-it type, doesn’t talk about all the dick he’s laying down like the rest of his brothers. If anything, he kept it quiet, kept it low-key, and probably left a trail of people who never quite got over him.

Also—yeah, he definitely would’ve experimented a little. He’s someone who’s open-minded, especially in his early 20s when identity is still forming. Maybe not a ton of serious relationships, but definitely meaningful encounters with both women and men. If anything, that ambiguity only added to his allure. He was always more of a personality guy anyway.

However, a frat man is still a frat man, no matter what font you put them in. Brian has had more than his fair share of drunk hookups, at least two orgies, and may have accidentally convinced his RA to sleep with him so they wouldn’t rat him out for keeping alcohol in his dorm. For how emotionally and intellectually smart he is, he is a king at ghosting/blocking people he doesn’t desire to see again.

✦ . Random “frat guy” things he definitely did:

He ghosted at least one situationship without meaning to—got distracted by something else (like, y’know, being stalked by the Operator).

Wrote a philosophy paper while blackout drunk and got an A. Didn’t remember writing it, couldn’t replicate the feat if he tried.

Took shrooms once and spent six hours talking to a broken vending machine. Called it “a spiritual experience.” Still talks about it sometimes whenever Toby asks.

Definitely went through a “man bun” phase. No one could stop him. Not even God.

Had a thing for psychology majors. Loved flirting with people who tried to psychoanalyze him. Played into it a little too well.

Had a secret soft spot for poetry. Got drunk at a party once and started reciting Rilke. Three people cried, one person proposed. He ghosted them the next day.

Pong Champion. Had a win streak so ridiculous in beer pong they called him “Houdini” for his aim. He pretended he hated the nickname but secretly loved it.

Definitely had one intense relationship that started great and ended in a weird, distant fizzle when Brian became more absorbed in… darker things. That person still reaches out to him every once in a while, random birthday or holiday texts, but he hasn’t replied in years.

Favorite beer was Miller Lite (in the can, no ice, room temperature), mainly because he liked the stout taste, but doubly because it made cigars after football games taste better.

His college years were the last time he felt remotely “normal” before everything went sideways. Sometimes he thinks about those days and wonders if it was ever really real, if the people he met and made connections with even remember him.

✦ . Now for a fun little blurb:

The bass thumped through the floor like it was trying to crawl into your bones, and the air in the house was thick with too many bodies and too much cheap beer. You were halfway through a drink you didn’t even like when someone pressed up beside you, the heat of them cutting through the noise before you even turned your head.

“Tell me you’re not drinking that,” Brian said, already reaching for the cup in your hand.

You arched a brow at him, but let him take it. “I was. Until you decided to get all heroic.”

He took a sip, grimaced dramatically, and dumped the rest into a potted plant behind him without breaking eye contact. “You have terrible taste.”

“And you’re wearing sunglasses at midnight.”

He just grinned, crooked, lazy, confident in that frat-boy-who-knows-he’s-hot kind of way, and leaned in closer, voice low in your ear. “It’s part of the mystery. Chicks love mystery.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth of his breath on your neck made your skin tingle.

He was already sliding an arm around your waist like he belonged there, like you were an inside joke only the two of you were in on. “Come on,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. Your brain told you it was because the loud thump of the music made it hard to hear, so he had to get in close. But your heart told you other, more sensual things. “There’s better drinks in the kitchen. And I wanna show you something.”

“Is it a magic trick?” you teased, letting him guide you through the crowd.

“Something like that,” he said with a wink. “Depends how well you behave.”

Later, when you found yourselves tucked into the quieter corner of the upstairs hallway, his hoodie slung over your shoulders and his cologne clinging to your skin, you realized he was trouble.

The kind of trouble you’d let kiss you breathless against someone else’s bedroom door.

And later still, when he whispered your name like a secret just for him, you realized you were going to fall for him way harder than you should.

꩜ .ᐟ

[nmimsmbasolvedassignments-7]

How do I find customized NMIMS BBA 1st Sem Business Communication Solved Assignment

NMIMS Dec 2024 MBA 1st Sem Solved Assignments, NMIMS Dec 2024 EMBA 1st Sem Solved Assignments

Academic assistance to NMIMS Students by Dr. Aravind Banakar:

In the dynamic world of higher education, the demand for quality academic support is ever-growing. One figure who has emerged as a stalwart in this arena is Dr. Aravind Banakar. With over 24 years of experience crafting customized, plagiarism-free assignments for students at the Narsee Monjee Institute of Management Studies (NMIMS), Dr. Banakar has become a trusted resource for MBA, BBA, B.Com, and EMBA students.

A Journey of Expertise

Dr. Banakar's journey began with a profound commitment to education and a passion for helping students achieve their academic goals. Armed with advanced degrees and a wealth of knowledge in various disciplines, he quickly established himself as an authority in academic writing. His extensive experience spans over two decades, during which he has honed his skills in creating tailored assignments that meet the specific requirements of NMIMS and adhere to the highest academic standards.

Customized Solutions for Diverse Needs

What sets Dr. Banakar apart is his dedication to providing customized solutions that cater to each student's unique needs. Understanding that every assignment is a learning opportunity, he approaches each task meticulously. Whether it is an MBA project requiring in-depth analysis or a B.Com assignment focused on financial principles, Dr. Banakar's expertise ensures that students receive comprehensive and relevant content.

His ability to grasp complex concepts and translate them into clear, concise writing has made him a valuable asset to students navigating the rigors of their coursework. Dr. Banakar takes the time to engage with students, understand their challenges, and guide them through the assignment process. This personalized approach enhances the quality of the assignments and empowers students to develop their understanding of the subject matter.

Commitment to Academic Integrity

In an era of rampant plagiarism and academic dishonesty, Dr. Banakar stands firmly against such practices. His commitment to delivering plagiarism-free assignments is unwavering. Each work is meticulously researched, written from scratch, and thoroughly checked for originality. This ensures that students receive authentic content and reinforces the importance of academic integrity in their educational journey.

By emphasizing the significance of original work, Dr. Banakar instills a sense of responsibility in his students, encouraging them to embrace the learning process rather than merely seeking shortcuts. His approach fosters an environment of trust and respect, where students can confidently submit their assignments, knowing they reflect their efforts and understanding.

Impact on Student Success

Over the years, Dr. Aravind Banakar has played a pivotal role in the success of countless students at NMIMS. His contributions extend beyond mere assignment writing; he has become a mentor and guide for many. Students who have sought his assistance often express gratitude for the clarity and depth he brings to their understanding of complex topics.

The positive feedback from students is a testament to Dr. Banakar's unwavering dedication to their success. Many have reported improved grades, enhanced confidence in their abilities, and a deeper appreciation for the subjects they study. His impact resonates not only in academic performance but also in his students' personal growth.

A Vision for the Future

As the education landscape evolves, Dr. Aravind Banakar remains committed to adapting and growing alongside it. He is constantly exploring new methodologies and technologies to enhance the academic support he provides. By staying updated with industry trends and educational best practices, Dr. Banakar ensures that his services remain relevant and practical.

In addition to his assignment writing, Dr. Banakar is passionate about promoting critical thinking and analytical skills among students. He believes these skills are essential for success in today's competitive job market and strives to incorporate them into his guidance and mentorship.

Dr. Aravind Banakar's extensive experience and unwavering dedication to providing customized, plagiarism-free assignments have made him a vital resource for NMIMS students pursuing MBA, BBA, B.Com, and EMBA degrees. His commitment to academic integrity and student success sets a benchmark in academic writing. As he continues to inspire and empower students, Dr. Banakar remains a beacon of excellence in the ever-evolving landscape of higher education.

We are number 1, NMIMS Assignments Academic Writing Professionals.

We are the most reputable and reliable NMIMS Assignments provider in India

We Provide 100 % Customized, 100 % Unique, and 100 % Plagiarism-free Assignments.

We offer both General and Customized projects. Please be sure to hurry for quality assignments.

With a history spanning over 24 years, we have provided unparalleled academic writing support to students, scholars, and researchers worldwide.

NMIMS University BBM Solved Assignments & Capstone Projects

NMIMS University BBA Solved Assignments & Capstone Projects

NMIMS University B.Com Solved Assignments & Capstone Projects

NMIMS University EMBA Solved Assignments & Capstone Projects

NMIMS University MBA Solved Assignments & Capstone Projects

NMIMS Dec 2024 BBA 1st Sem Solved Assignments

NMIMS Dec 2024 BBM 1st Sem Solved Assignments

NMIMS Dec 2024 MBA 1st Sem Solved Assignments

NMIMS Dec 2024 EMBA 1st Sem Solved Assignments

NMIMS Dec 2024 BBA Solved Assignments

NMIMS Dec 2024 BBM Solved Assignments

NMIMS Dec 2024 BCOM Solved Assignments

NMIMS Dec 2024 General Solved Assignments

NMIMS Dec 2024 Customized MBA Solved Assignments

NMIMS Dec 2024 Customized Solved Assignments

NMIMS Dec 2024 Customized BBA Assignments

NMIMS Dec 2024 Customized BBM Assignments

NMIMS Dec 2024 Customized Assignments

NMIMS all Semester Solved Assignments

NMIMS Assignment Guidelines by Dr. Aravind Banakar

NMIMS Assignment Help by Dr. Aravind Banakar

NMIMS MBA Solved Assignments by Dr. Aravind Banakar

NMIMS Online Assignment Submission by Dr. Aravind Banakar

NMIMS Assignment Solutions by Dr. Aravind Banakar

NMIMS Assignment Writing Services by Dr. Aravind Banakar

NMIMS Apr 2025 1st Sem Assignments

NMIMS Apr 2025 2nd Sem Assignments

NMIMS Apr 2025 3rd Sem Assignments

NMIMS Apr 2025 4th Sem Assignments

NMIMS Apr 2025 BBA Assignments

NMIMS Apr 2025 BBM Assignments

NMIMS Apr 2025 BCOM Assignments

NMIMS Apr 2025 PGDBM Assignments

NMIMS Apr 2025 General Assignments

NMIMS Apr 2025 Customized MBA Assignments

NMIMS Apr 2025 Customized Solved Assignments

NMIMS Apr 2025 Customized BBA Assignments

NMIMS Apr 2025 Customized BBM Assignments

NMIMS Apr 2025 Customized PGDBM Assignments

NMIMS Apr 2025 Customized Assignments

NMIMS homework support

NMIMS online tutoring

NMIMS assignment experts

NMIMS assignment solutions

NMIMS assignment guidance

NMIMS APR 2025Customized Assignments

NMIMS Plagiarism-free Assignments

NMIMS assignment solutions

NMIMS assignment writing service

NMIMS academic support

NMIMS online learning assistance

NMIMS assignment consultancy

NMIMS project writing assistance

NMIMS exam preparation help

NMIMS assignment guidance

NMIMS coursework writing service

NMIMS academic research assistance

NMIMS assignment coaching

NMIMS term paper writers

NMIMS assignment outsourcing

NMIMS assignment completion services

NMIMS online assignment help desk

NMIMS assignment review service

NMIMS academic writing workshops

SVKM’s Narsee Monjee MBA Solved Assignments

 SVKM’s  Narsee Monjee BBA Solved Assignments

SVKM’s  Narsee Monjee BBM Solved Assignments

SVKM’s  Narsee Monjee B.COM Solved Assignments

SVKM’s  Narsee Monjee EMBA Solved Assignments

 SVKM’s  Narsee Monjee MBA 1st Sem Solved Assignments

 SVKM’s  Narsee Monjee BBA 1st Sem Solved Assignments

SVKM’s  Narsee Monjee BBM 1st Sem Solved Assignments

SVKM’s  Narsee Monjee B.COM 1st Sem Solved Assignments

SVKM”s Narsee Monjee EMBA 1st Sem Solved Assignments

 SVKM’s  Narsee Monjee MBA 2nd Sem Solved Assignments

 SVKM’s  Narsee Monjee BBA 2nd Sem Solved Assignments

SVKM’s  Narsee Monjee BBM 2nd Sem Solved Assignments

SVKM’s  Narsee Monjee B.COM 2nd Sem Solved Assignments

SVKM’s  Narsee Monjee EMBA 2nd Sem Solved Assignments

Dr. Aravindkumar Banakar aravind.banakar@gmail.com +91 9901366442 +91 9902787224 https://mbacasestudyanswers.com

[kanmom51]

Jikook - Are you sure?!

My take is that they pretty much are!!

I've been mulling over this for a few days now.

Do I write this? How do I approach the subject and how do I even put this onto paper (figuratively)?

I touched on this a little in previous posts, including in my last one about choices. Clear cut choices the two of them made regarding enlistment, the show and how they wanted to spend the little spare time they had before their restrictive 18 months military service.

But this post here is specifically about the show.

Even before the show came out I was thinking about the subject and discussing this with friends. Why do the show? Is there something they are wanting to tell us and if so what is it they are trying to tell us?

The first question was an obvious to me even before the show came out, before we heard their discussion in the car on the way to CT.

It was a way to spend time together in the guise of work (once again, a choice they made so that they can spend much needed quality time together within the constricts of their schedules and upcoming enlistment - and that car discussion sure did show us just how much this was a need for the two of them).

Being such a short time before enlistment, both with separate super busy solo schedules, this here was their way of getting to travel together, including out of the country (for which they needed it to be for work to allow said travel at this point prior to enlistment), spend quality time together, creating those new memories to carry with them into the military, all while under the protection of "work".

It's not that they hadn't spent time together. We talked about this already. This was about it not being enough. Not enough quality time. Not enough memory making time before this life changing event they are going to go through.

We have to remember that when this was initially thought about, the idea of the show, them enlisting together was not a done deal. Can you just imagine that? Them knowing that time is running out and they have to enlist but might have to part ways for 18 months? If so many of us were so stressed out about the idea, what do you think it felt like for them?

There was so much going on behind the scenes, which we were unaware of, it's actually quite comical knowing what we know today and looking back at the discourse surrounding those two - the stories of heartbreaking breakups or just plain indifference to each other - all because people just cannot come to terms with the fact that not all their lives are out on display for us (kind of blows to pieces the whole Jikook are for fanservice narrative, if you ask me), that these two can and do spend time together when only they can, behind closed doors, just enjoying each other's company doing whatever. That there are powers at play (many reasons why they were toned down in public and content in 2023), that there are things they might need to be doing in order to reach an end goal that suits them, playing a long game. And the one sentence I have on repeat since I started here on Tumblr:

Not seeing them most definitely does not mean they aren't there.

And boy did they prove that one to us during AYS. Time after time. They get together. They see each other. They spend time with each other. They share things with each other. And huge surprise (NOT): they do it off camera!!! Without us knowing. Without reporting back to us. WOW!!!

As usual, off track meet Kanmom...

Back to the show.

So, talk about doing this came before they knew for sure that they would be enlisting together. It came months before. Way before July 2023. Toying with the idea, turning it into a plan of sorts and then it took planning and booking and getting permits for filming, including using drones for filming.

This might partially explain why the first trip happened in July and not earlier, although they both did have busy schedules pretty much from April 2023 onward and the trip happened when JM finished recording Muse).

And what about the destinations? Why these three?

Connecticut - I think this one was more of a chance decision, as in it was suggested to them seeing that timewise this was the only time they had available for that first much much needed trip. JK was already scheduled to be in the USA, they had Hybe America to rely on as far as finding locations, places to stay, activities to do and places to eat. And I do think that doing this, the unknown location in a country where they don't speak the language fluently was actually something of a thrill to them as well (going to a location where the chances of them being recognized as JM and JK of BTS were kind of low). But mainly, I do believe this was more of a "we need this trip and we need it now, so we will go wherever, just make it happen" kind of situation. This was "the much needed trip".

Jeju - Jeju is a safe place for them. A place they both love and have visited multiple times separately and together (the last time prior to this trip was only weeks before). Even without Tae, this would have been a lighthearted, activity filled fun trip. Tae being there highlighted them, their intimacy, their connection with each other. And it probably did tame down some of their naughtiness, although we did get to see plenty of that as well. This was "the fun trip".

Sapporo - Japan as a whole is a destination they love. I mean, and JK said that himself, Tokyo is where they took their first alone trip together, they loved Tokyo, and the memories from that trip are dear to their heart to this day. They got to do Tokyo together again. Not together all the time, probably not as much as they wanted to either, but still managed to spend some time together in Tokyo before moving on to Sapporo where they filmed the show. A trip to Japan, Tokyo, and Sapporo as well is a sentimental one. Places they have been, places where good memories were made (as part of BTS and as a couple), places where they will make more good memories that they will carry with them to the military. This is "the emotional/ sentimental trip", or "the nostalgic trip".

And you can see the difference in their behavior between the three trips. Each and every one of those trips meant so much to them but each in a different way. And when you look back at the three as a whole they needed all three.

The perfect trifecta.

The idea was spending time together, making it a work thing allowed for the travel abroad, but it also carved it into a work schedule. Which means, unlike regular time off that can be moved and cancelled, doing this set their plans in stone, in a way, ensuring that these trips actually happened.

This was also a huge opportunity for JM and JK to create content for Army for when they were away. A choice to showcase themselves, their "chemistry", a word used a lot to describe the show. This, on the one hand, was great for JM, who obviously does not want to be visible during his service (and JK is kind of the same, especially when he has JM by his side), and on the other hand created content for Hybe to release while they were away. And having it on Disney, creating merch and a photobook (and maybe there is more stuff to come) is more income for the company while they are away, so win win (that explains Hybe agreeing to this in the first place).

All those are obvious, clear reasons as to why this show came into fruition.

But I do think there is more.

And before I move on to that, I want to remind us all, once again and with feeling, that all 3 destinations were supposed to be Jikook and Jikook only. Jeju was not meant to be a maknae destination. Tae was not invited, and I mean no malice in that. It's just me stating the truth. They let him know that multiple times during the trip. And him being there, in a sense, just highlighted how different they are with each other than either of them or both of them with Tae.

So, they wanted to do a show, just the two of them, visiting different destinations, enjoying different activities, good food and just being (the whole them just being was more evident in CT and Sapporo because of it only being the two of them, although we certainly did get some Jikook BEING moments from Jeju as well).

I get wanting to spend the time together, carve out new memories to carry with them into enlistment, but why show it to us, why the way it was done? Hours and hours of Jikook content, some of just the two basically doing nothing, or nothing much? It's not about sightseeing (not really), it's not about the activities, not really, it's not even about the food (gasp).

This is not about the travel, it's about them!!!

It's about them doing their thing, and us just enjoying sitting for hours on end, watching them do their thing and SEEING them.

Not the places they go, not the things they do, not even the food they eat. It's seeing them do those things, eat those things, be together - them just BE.

And it's about them wanting to give that to us. They want us to see THEM. See what they are together, what they are to each other.

JK and JM know that there are parts of the fandom that have a visceral reaction to them, as Jikook (together and apart - a lot of said hate stems from what and who they are together) . We know that JK monitors SM. Maybe not down to the ugliest, but they know. And still they want to show themselves, because this is who they are and they want to be able to be themselves as freely as possible (depending on just how far they want to be going).

They can't come out and tell us, not yet, maybe not ever. It is what it is, sadly.

But they do want to cement this within the fandom:

JM and JK together can be over the top in every sense. PERIOD.

And when I say over the top I mean as sus as shit...

JM and JK love each other dearly. PERIOD.

JM and JK are inseparable. PERIOD.

JM and JK are close as can be. PERIOD.

JM and JK enjoy spending time with each other. PERIOD.

JM and JK CHOOSE to spend time with each other when they can (the whole Jeju change of plans makes it even clearer) - PERIOD.

JM and JK NEED to spend time with each other. PERIOD.

JM and JK are playful together, as much as they are serious together - PERIOD.

JM and JK care for each other and take care of each other (well they try to as much as the other allows it). PERIOD.

JM and JK enjoy to do the exciting and the mundane together. PERIOD.

*I do believe that JK climbing is just as exciting as rock climbing. And they enjoyed both...

JM and JK know each other intimately - PERIOD.

JM and JK find safety, peace and comfort in each other - PERIOD.

JM and JK do not act like a typical "we are not in a relationship" hyung and donsaeng act - PERIOD.

JM and JK do things bros just do not do with or to each other - PERIOD.

JM and JK share their work with each other - PERIOD.

JM and JK are the embodiment of You are me I am you - PERIOD.

Jikook can most definitley be seen as a unit. PERIOD.

*Something that has been shied away from for too damn long.

Add to all of that those the things you just can't put into words. But they are there. They are undeniable. That chemistry, that love, that need, that je ne sais quoi, that engulfs everything else and makes it all feel like so much MORE!!!

More palpable, more intense, just MORE.

Remember my whole rubber band theory starting way back in 2021, how I think Hybe and Jikook were stretching the boundaries seeing just how far it can be stretched without breaking?

Ear suck stretch, pas de deux stretch, Christmas couples cheer stretch, hickey stretch (these are all moments that were either shown by the company in official content - like memories - or part of officially filmed content - like filmed performances)... and then came 2022 followed by 2023, with the company taking 20 steps back, but that's for another day (if ever).

This here, my friends, is the ultimate rubber band stretch. Hours and hours of content to show us that every single one of those Jikook instances that came before were not a one of. Not forced. Not singular and far apart. That what we have seen of them is NOTHING compared to what they are, because this is them all the damn time. Cameras on cameras off (dare I say that when cameras are off it's way worse?). Together with the others, or by themselves. No more "it might be out of context". We get the context, most of it, and still we get THEM. And that rubber band, it still hasn't snapped, cause there are still those that do not see it, lol. But, I think it's safe to say that many do and those that don't, well, many of them cannot deny anymore just how close they are. Even though "brothers" or "besties" still comes up a lot.

It's funny how things that were obvious to many of us needed to be reinforced by JM and JK in this show. It always baffled me the way a big chunk of this fandom steered away from Jikook, like touching on the subject was a taboo. Like Jikookers were insane, delusional (we are used to be called that). Not only steering away from a romantic involvement, but also that, god forbid, they are the closest within the group of 7. That didn't sit right with many. Ruined their Vmin soulmates dreams, or TKK best mates or whatever (do we raise the subject once again why the clearly closest duo in the group were kind of put aside, not acknowledged as such not only by the fandom but by the company as well?). OR, and I feel like this one is the winner, admitting as to how close those two were, with their clear super suspicious behaviour, would have them have to admit that there was something more going on between them. Homophobia or over wokeness, either way these people were ignoring what the two were signaling to us for years now. And now, well now, we are in chapter 2, or perhaps just before chapter 3. All of them after service. We know from RM how he's bursting at the seams to tell us things he feels he can't say just yet (and couldn't prior to enlistment), I do believe this is going to be something we will be seeing from all of them. They are mature men now, they have fulfilled their duty to their country, they are BTS, talented successful, rich artists. They have signed new contracts after long negotiations. They will have more freedom. And they will be showing us more. Things they couldn't before. And this show, imo, is one of those steps forward.

Let the world see JM and JK as they are. There will be those that SEE them. There will be those that acknowledge their closeness. There will always be those that continue to deny or hate them because they SEE them. But at the end of the day, this here is a step forward for them to be able to live their lives openly, be who they are to each other and with each other, not have to hide or tone back too much (there will always be toning back because you can't be too open on camera and because at this point they are kind of used to it). They don't have to 'come out' officially loudly (if they do not choose to). As long as they can continue to BE the way they want to and live their lives freely the way they want to. It's always been their choice, but this here allows them more freedom within that glass closet if they choose not to break through it. They will be who they are, live their lives freely as they will, leaving others to think as they want, neither denying nor confirming anything.

Let's be clear here though. This too is a choice. A brave one as such. Because no matter what they decide to do, if it is to leave things as they are, or if they decide post military service to 'come out' as a couple (and there could be reasons for them to make that choice), this show here is as loud as @&#%.

And proud as $@&%

*And for clarification sake, just incase, none of the above is me voicing my opinion about if or should they 'come out' or not after being discharged from the military.

I can't believe AYS is coming to an end. Last episode tomorrow. I know we still have the behinds and we still have the photobook coming, but I sure am feeling the "the show has come to an end" blues. This here, what we got with this show I don't know if we will ever get another chance at. Them letting us in as much as they did. I do hope they know just how much we appreciate them allowing us to see THEM and how very much they are loved!!!

[fanaticsnail]

Let Me Take Care of You

Even though I have all of the one-shots planned out and added to the Masterlist, mapped out several other plot points, and attempted to prioritize fics that I've desperately been putting off - I feel like we all needed this. TLC for our broody warlord. He needs to have his burden relieved in a SFW way (for once, regarding my writing!).

Word Count: 4,323

Warnings: semi-sub-Mihawk, switch-behaviour, moaning, kissing, pining, massaging, swearing (once), barely proof-read, fluff.

Song suggestion: Older - Isabel LaRosa

The amber-coloured eyes of the warlord shut tightly as he rose the maroon-coloured liquid to his lips; barely a whisper of a flinch perking up to his crows feet as he sipped at it. He rolled the bitter liquid over his tongue, savouring the flavour of the tart tannins before relinquishing it down his throat. The alcohol trickled down his neck to pool in a heat at the pit of his bare chest and stomach as he listened further to your melodical voice speaking with expert precision his readying schedule.

“Praises of your battle have already been sent in from the World Government’s head office,” you nodded, relinquishing the rolled newspaper from beneath your arm to present to the warlord while expertly holding your clipboard up to your face.

Mihawk rolled his neck, reopening his eyes and grasping the wafer-fine paper roll from your outstretched hand. Fingertips barely whispering a small touch, you retracted your hand from his once he clasped his hand around the material.

“Go on,” he commanded in a lazy tone while unrolling the paper to begin reading it. A glimpse of agitation fell to the warlord’s brow as his eyes narrowed, skimming over the pages while you continued to relay his schedule to him.

“You expressed interest in tending to your vineyard later today: I’ve already sent for your stable-hand to brush down your Clydesdale for a ride,” your eyes narrowed as you examined your boss, “also, the horticulturalist and viticulturalist have scheduled a meeting with you and the cellar hands to ready the next vintage of Tokaji for you to sample.”

Mihawk hummed in response, his nose hissing in a small, sharp inhale afterwards.

You were accustomed to his surliness as his personal assistant; your roles being from administrative roles regarding: scheduling, to managing his liaisons with the world government contacts to running his large homestead and farmlands with his many staff; alongside his sales associate for his Tokaji distribution and growth on Kuraigana. You were on first name terms after several years within his service, but chose to remain formal while you were within working hours.

“Sir?” you asked him, sharply. He snapped his unblinking eyes to bore into your own.

“Yes?” he questioned in a bored, drawn out tone.

“You are less like yourself today,” you noted, pulling the clipboard away from the front of your torso and placing it down on the table to lay it before him, “you normally rise at the opportunity to indulge in your samples. Is there something I should be made aware of? An injury perhaps?”

A small scowl drew itself upon the lips of the warlord; something akin to a pout below his well-maintained moustache.

“If any of them had the skill to land a single blow, I would have made you aware of such an occurrence,” he taunted you, agitation again falling to his brow. He floated his hawk-eyes back to the newspaper, shaking it to stabilise the material with a firm grip.

You cocked your chin sharply at his challenge, quickly raking your eyes over his body to check it for injury or slight dishevelment. Your sights fell to his righthand shoulder; zeroing your eyes with a precise beam against his upper body.

“You’ve pulled something,” you noted through pursed lips, “an overexertion wielding Yoru, no doubt while-.”

“-I have no such ailment,” he spoke over you in a sharp tone, his eyes snapping to yours over the top of the newspaper with a scowl. You held your narrowed gaze against his own with relentless resolve, choosing to step towards him as he withdrew his sights to fall back to the newspaper.

“As you’ve been priorly informed, sir, I have quite the resume,” you began, bringing your fingertips to curl down the top of the paper Mihawk was grasping, “you are aware of my history as a rehabilitative remedial therapist, and I am glad to offer my hands to you should you ever require them.”

It was true. Your vast experience was why Dracule Mihawk hired you. Your resume was unlike anything he had encountered prior, which is why he chose to keep you close. Swordsmanship, dagger mastery, martial combat, administrative duties, expert skills in the realms of viticulture and remedial massage occupied the majority of your time in study – undoubtedly the reason you never acquired the opportunity to settle down and home-make with a partner of your own, and chose to accept the role of assistant from the great swordsman.

Mihawk chose to ignore your hand pulling the paper downwards and continue to skim his eyes on the lower edges of the page to avoid your statement. You quirked your brow at him in question before sighing and retracting your hand from the pages.

“If that will be all, sir,” you began with a curt nod, “I shall retire to my duties managing your staff.”

As you turned to flee from the large dining hall, a voice softly addressed you.

“Fine,” Mihawk uttered in a low tone, prompting you to halt your next step, “I admit it. Wielding Yoru has taken its toll recently and I may have strained myself under the weight.”

You smirked before turning back towards your boss. Tilting your neck to relieve a small ‘click’ of pressure, you dropped your smirk and turned back to face him once more.

“Would you like me to rid that burden from you, sir?” you asked him, approaching the table once more while reaching for the newspaper and wine glass from his hands, “take the weight from your shoulders?”

He sighed, dropping his head and relinquishing his grasp on the two objects and handed them over to you.

“Yes,” he admitted in a exhaled whisper.

A soft smile drew itself to the corners of your lips as you placed down the objects on the table in front of him. You had never before crossed this particular boundary between you and Mihawk; fondness in professional comradery being the only true establishment in your relationship before the years and depth of professional curtesy blossomed into true alliance.

As your tenure drew close, your relationship did begin to deepen over a glass of wine or two after you had completed your duties of the evening. He had begun asking for your opinion after your third year of service. Your fifth year, he trusted your judgements in a variety of tasks; relinquishing them completely to you.

Within the eighth year of employment, he would often seek you out for conversation regarding his staff; often seeking, in his own way, gossip amongst the members he employed. This being your ninth year of employment, you could easily find the word ‘friend’ from falling within your thoughts regarding the dark-haired gentleman before you. You held a fondness for him, often desiring to see him thrive in achieving his combatant goals and maintaining his title of world’s greatest swordsman. You could even go so far as to say you loved him; pining for him through subtlety caring for him in all ways in your duties.

“Say no more,” you responded, reaching your hand towards his own; gaining his full attention in a curt snap of his chin upwards. He gazed up at you, you almost stooping towards his seated form. His eyes held the depth of his ailment.

“Go and ready yourself in the bathing quarters; dress down but remain covered,” you nodded to him, giving his hand a gentle squeeze in affirmation, “I’ll have your itinerary cancelled for the day and rescheduled for the following week. And between us,” you reached your other hand to smooth over his cheek in a gentle caress, “the grapes would do well with maturing on the vine for a little while longer.”

He hummed against your hand, eyes closing and leaning into your caress. You were taken aback at his unwithheld expression of fondness for you. Helping to guide him to his feet, you ushered him throughout the doors, noticing his usually strict and rigid posture had begun to slouch against the burden on his shoulders.

You shook your head with your soft smile remaining, watching him as the final shadow of his body fell away from view. Arrangements made through den-den-mushi calls and vocal commands to your underlings; you widened your fingers to ready themselves to rid the warlord of the burdens he was carrying in the knots littered along his back and shoulders.

Walking along the halls, up the many steps and winding along the corridors; you found your feet falling to the large bathing quarters of the large, darkened castle. You knocked on the wooden door with a tri-fold, curt rap – the inner room welcoming you with a small groan beckoning your arrival from within.

You opened the door, truly not quite prepared for the sight befalling you.

Dracule Mihawk, clad in nothing but a white towel hanging from his hips: his hat, necklace and sword being nowhere in sight. Your eyes met with his curled, dark locks as his head hung lowly; his hands clasping the marble, low-lying table beneath his palms. You could almost visibly see the waves of tension falling from his bare shoulders, prompting a small gasp of empathy to fall from your lips as you shut the door behind you.

“Why did you not say something sooner, my lord?” you asked him, approaching him swiftly. He sighed in response, holding his eyes fixed to the polished tiles beneath his bare feet.

“I do not readily present vulnerability to those I employ,” he uttered through clenched teeth, “why should you be any different?”

Your brows fell to a firm frown, eyes narrowing as you uttered: “I would have thought after nearly ten years of service, we would call each other ‘friend’ by now.”

He sighed again, shoulders slouching further under the weight of his burden.

“Okay, friend,” he mocked, bringing his eyes up to meet with your own, “if you would be so kind as to hold true to your promise. Fix me.”

You folded your arms over your chest and widened your stance in stubbornness.

“Ask me more politely, friend,” you sternly challenged him; “and I just may find it in my heart to do so-.”

“-please,” Mihawk whispered through baited breath in a tone you could only just pick up on your registry.

“Beg, pardon?” you asked him, not truly processing the words falling from his lips.

“Please,” he stated a little more firmly, his eyes almost wide and pleading with you, “please fix me.”

You were shocked. Taken-aback. Flabbergasted. Holding true to your promise, you relinquished your shoes from their presence wrapped around your feet and placed them neatly by the door.

The next item you removed was your socks, placing them within the soles of your shoes. Removing your coat and placing it by the door, you turned back towards your boss and began your approach. You stood in front of him, his head bowed low once more to reveal his broad shoulders towards you.

“If I may assess the damage, sir?” you asked, reaching your hand out to touch his shoulder.

“By all means,” he mocked you, a small chuckle almost leaving as you touched your palm to his shoulder while remaining strong in front of him. Feeling the warmth radiating from his body, an audible gasp fled your lips alongside an empathetic wince.

“Fuck,” you gasped, feeling the muscle below his skin. It was completely solid. There was no ‘knot’ to work out; his entire shoulder was one large intertwining vine of tension and pressure.

Another sigh fled from his lips at your reaction, his voice addressing you; “is it truly that bad?”

You clicked your neck from side to side, retracting your hand from his shoulder and drawing your fingers to intertwine within each other to stretch them in preparation.

“Sir,” you addressed him, his eyes drawing again to yours from their down-focussed position upwards.

“Yes?” He challenged you, his tone once again mocking you with his pained smirk lingering beneath.

“You-,” you collected his chin within your fingers to hold his gae against your own, “-are going to absolutely hate me after this.”

“I doubt that,” his smirk widened.

“Oh,” you shook your head, relinquishing your hold on his chin and returning to your pile of clothes, “you are either going to fire me-,” you said, undoing your belt and untucking your shirt to have it fall below your underwear to keep you shielded, “-or propose to me after this.”

“What are you doing?” he asked you, his shoulders stiffening upright and alert at your movements. A snarl fell to his mouth as you pulled your pants from your hips downwards to pool at your feet.

“Calm down-,” your face was completely serious, your air of command falling freely from your lips in reaffirmation, “-I am going to need my knees for the job to be properly performed. Judging from the knots on your shoulders; I’m assuming the rest of your body has been equally as ill-maintained in care.”

His snarl lessened, his jaw almost falling slack before he tensed it.

“If you insist,” he relinquished his hesitation, “you know what’s best.”

“That I do, sir,” you nodded to him, again approaching him once more with a fresh towel in hand, “use this to prop your head and lie face down on the bench. Let me take care of you.”

He immediately snatched the towel from your hands and in one swift movement, he fell immediately to lie on his stomach with his arms bent outwards to prop below his chin. You couldn’t help the small giggle to fall from your lips at his eagerness, but as you were reminded of your prior experience feeling his marble-like stiffness below his muscular definition; you would be exactly as eager to be rid of your burden as he currently was.

“Get on with it, then-,” he commanded you, halting as your firm hands gripped his shoulders and began to search his muscles for the source of the tension. His spine, shoulder blades, rib cage and biceps were all stiff and rigid; a plate of stone ready to be carved under your expert and precise skill to be restored and moulded into his glory.

You winced as you located the large knot, a place in the crevasse between his shoulder blade and spinal collum close to his upper neck. You tested the pressure with your thumbs, syphoning an unintentional moan to wince through the lips of the warlord. Mihawk tensed at the shock of the sound you managed to pull from him, opening his mouth to speak; only to be cut off with your verbal reprimand.

“There is no shame in sounds here, my lord,” you informed him, pushing down further against the knot and rotating your thumbs expertly in a circular motion, “I can tell how much this pains you, and I can sense the relief you will come to feel once I rid you truly of it. If it causes you more tension to withhold your vocalisations, by all means do not restrain yourself.”

Replacing your thumb with the precise point of your elbow had Mihawk arching back into your touch with his bottom lip clenched between his top teeth; his breath hissing out in an attempt to restrain his audible moan. You continued to utilise your left arm to drive down your right elbow for a firmer pressure; finally withdrawing a completely unrestrained whimper to escape from the lips of the warlord below you as he humbled himself truly under your ministrations.

“Well done, sir,” you praised him, dragging your elbow to the mirrored point on the other shoulder to relinquish the lesser knot on the other side, “you’re doing wonderfully-.”

“-Do not treat me like some incapable- ungh!” his words were stolen from him as you continued to work your remedial magic against his knots; battling with them and overcoming them in combat beneath your skilled hands.

“Stop holding back,” you commanded him firmly, lying your right forearm directly onto his spine and baring down your weight onto it, “the more you withhold your humility, the more tense you become. Let me help you.”

Under those final four worded commands, Dracule Mihawk became a mewling, gasping, sighing mess beneath your talented hands and forearms as you continued to detangle the firm vines of his hardened knots beneath his skin. You remained professional under the sounds you pulled from him, fighting the warmth that began rising upwards from your chest to your cheeks.

You leant down towards his ear, his dark curls brushing against your cheek as you brought your lips towards his ear.

“I am going to stand on you now, my lord,” you informed him as you continued to put pressure against his left shoulder, “if that is alright with you-.”

“-Yes,” he sighed, his eyes met with yours with his pupils completely blown with unbridled satisfaction and anticipation, “please.”

His jaw was slack, his breath fleeing his lips in shallow pants as he was guided within a place somewhere situated with the most pain his body had been within while chasing the biggest release of complete relief and descending his burden onto you.

“As you command it, sir,” you nodded to him with a warm smile, placing your palms flat on his back and jumping to situate your feet beneath his thighs as you crouched lowly. You placed your bare knees against his glutes and bore the brunt of your weight first onto those pressure points.

Another relentless whimper fell from his lips before he allowed an unbridled moan to fully escape from his lips as the pressure became completely withdrawn from his muscles; leaving his body completely exposed and mouldable below your ministrations.

“I’ll be placing my feet on you now, sir,” you informed him, testing his lower back with your left foot as you rose from your kneeling position, “if you could trust my leadership for this next experience; I will guide you on when to inhale and exhale to relieve your body completely of the tension. Can you do that for me?”

“Y-yes,” he sighed. His tone caused you apprehension as you began to have the warmth from your chest truly spread itself in reaction to his vocalisation. You mentally scolded yourself, reminding yourself that you were a professional and this was your job; Mihawk was your boss, not some lover or object for you to fixate your desires upon. You shook your head and began to rise your body while baring your weight against his back beneath your feet.

“My lord-,” you began, halted only by his next words.

“-Mihawk,” he corrected you, “call me Mihawk, please.”

You nodded, inhaling and exhaling slowly to not read into his correction further than needed to be.

“Okay, Mihawk,” you spoke, a smile rising against your lips as you savoured the flavour of his name rolling over your tongue, “inhale.”

His torso rose upwards to completely balloon his chest upwards as you placed your left foot steadily against his spine.

“And slowly exhale,” you directed him, chasing after his breath with your weight. You felt the satisfaction of a loud ‘crunch’ below your toes followed by a cry of complete abandon falling from the lips of your boss below your feet.

“Good job, Mihawk,” you praised him again, “you’re listening very well.”

He moaned again against your praise as you trailed your feet upwards to fall against the mid of his back; “let’s do it again. A big inhale for me, please.”

Again breathing in a long inhale, you chased his breath with your weight while commanding him, “exhale now, Mihawk.” ‘Crunch.’

As a baker would roll out and form a crusted pastry; you were spreading out the torso of Mihawk against your weight, pulling moans, groans and cries of bliss from his lips as he listened intently to your every command. Each time he would gift you with a satisfactory ‘click,’ ‘crack,’ or ‘crunch,’ of his back and spine; you would offer him praise to follow. “Well done, Mihawk,” “you’re doing so well,” or comments of “oh, I bet that felt so good,” would fall from your own alongside an empathetic groan of pleasure at the relief he should surely feel beneath your feet.

As you fell to his shoulder blades, you stood on the tips of your toes and began to shuffle your feet to rid the flesh of any tension before you fell your feet back to drop to a kneeling position: your knees falling against his shoulders with your fingertips spread wide to brace your weight fully onto his body.

You rocked your knees against his shoulders, Mihawk’s mouth fully falling slack at this stage and brows furrowing in bliss with his eyes shut tightly. You craned your head to the side to get a full picture of his face; your brows again falling to a frown at his tension.

“Mihawk,” you verbally warned him, his eyes clenching tighter in response, “give yourself permission to be truly vulnerable beneath me.”

He sighed out a sharp exhale, his face contorting again; prompting you to apprehensively reach your hand forward to cup his cheek. His eyes fluttered open with his brows remaining furrowed. His beard felt coarse beneath your hand as your thumb soothed his cheek with small circles.

“I promise,” you moved your hand up to rub your thumb over his forehead, “you will feel much better once you just let go.”

His gaze fell to your lips before reluctantly pulling it back upwards to land on your eyes; his own eyes softening as he nodded subtly.

“Good man,” you praised him with a warm smile, removing your hand and leant backwards onto your feet once more closer to his shoulders, “now inhale once more.”

With a shaken breath, he inhaled again; feeling the tips of your fingers firmly against his neck, your knees against his shoulders and the balls of your feet perched on his lower back.

“Now exhale,” you softly commanded him, rolling your weight to your knees and chasing his relief with your body. ‘Crack.’

A low, rumbly groan of pleasure exited from the lips of the warlord in complete bliss as his tension had been successfully relieved beneath your skilled ministrations.

You smiled, slowly bringing your feet to the cool, tiled floor beneath your feet. Briefly sitting yourself atop his back, your white shirt rising slightly to reveal your underwear against his bare flesh, you hopped yourself down from your perch atop him. Reflexes overtook you as you reached your hand forward to rake through his dark locks, ruffling them beneath your fingers as you drew patterned circles against his scalp.

“Do you feel better?” you asked him, tilting your head downwards to check over his face for any further discomfort. In response, Dracule Mihawk immediately sprung to his feet; his hands falling beneath your shirt to grasp at the flesh above your hips. He dragged your pelvis to lie flush against his own, angling his chin downwards and entangling his lips against yours in a dance of passion.

Your eyes widened, your hand continuing its woven position within his hair as his moustache tickled your upper lip. You squealed out in surprise as his tongue protruded and caressed your lips as he circled his chin upwards to deepen his embrace. Raking his hands further beneath your shirt and circling around your back, he fully caged you against himself as a hawk would carry his prey within his talons.

He retracted his lips from his caress against your own and began trailing affectionate, fluttering kisses against your chin and jawline towards your ear; cradling your body completely against himself with a small, gleeful sway. You felt him smile against your skin, prompting more shock to rise to your face. Your fight, flight and freeze reflexes truly all engaged as this completely unprompted response from Dracule Mihawk continued in a dance of balancing lazy and abandoned sensibilities with a passionate and calculated engagement against your body.

He walked your body backwards towards the wall and fell himself to brace against it with his head fully falling against the arch between your neck and shoulder. He allowed another moan to fall from his lips as he bore his full weight against you; your arms reactionarily falling beneath his arms to catch him.

“Sir,” you addressed him in a warning tone, “I would not have gotten up that quickly. You needed time for your body to readjust to your new alignment before you bore your full weight onto yourself.”

“Patience is not my strongest suit, dear,” he chuckled against your shoulder, pressing his lips against your clothed body, “especially when it comes to expressing gratuity to my beautiful friend.”

You giggled, bracing his body completely against your own and in turn walking him backwards to knock the point behind his knees against the marble benchtop. He fell to a seated position, his forehead remaining connected to your stomach.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his hands falling to the back of your exposed thighs and holding your body against his forehead, “can we draw up more of those into our schedule?”

You furrowed your brows at him, reaching your right hand to retrieve his chin to tilt his head upwards to gaze into your eyes.

“My hands are yours, sir-,” you began, Mihawk bringing his left hand up to cradle your right hand within it; pressing a deep kiss against your palm while correcting you.

“-Mihawk,” he uttered, pressing another chaste kiss against your palm looking down at your hands affectionately, “please. When we’re alone like this, I am Mihawk to you.”

“Need I remind you, Mihawk,” you warned him, chasing his gaze with your own, “I am your employee, not your spouse.”

“Allow me to alter that arrangement,” he smirked against your palm, flittering his gaze upwards to meet your own once more. You shook your head at his statement with a small, half-smile.

“Firing me?” you asked him coyly, your left brow arched upwards in question.

“Courting you,” he corrected you, beckoning for you to arch downwards with his chin to rejoin your lips against his once more. Smiles and sighs in satisfaction of finally giving into your desires for one another falling from you both in unified harmony.

[oftenwantedafton]

personal space | steve raglan x f!reader

The new hire is delivered right to the door of Steve Raglan’s office one rainy Monday morning. He can feel the nervous energy wafting from you. But he’s good at this. Used to dealing with anxious job applicants from less than ideal backgrounds.

He can handle some new college grad.

Explicit, 2.8k words, ongoing revision started 3/27/25

ao3 link

The problem with being good at one’s job is that everyone relies on that person. Got a question? Just ask Steve Raglan. He’ll tell you what form to use or find the phone number needed. A long term resident of the Hurricane area, he’s virtually a walking guidebook for directions. He knows all the roads. The best shortcuts. What stores to shop at. What establishments to avoid. Hell, he even has some great recipes. A throwback to when he’d been employed in some capacity in the food industry or something. It’s never been explicitly stated just what that former career had entailed, only vaguely rumored and politely deflected whenever he’s questioned about it a little too directly. Nevertheless, he is the go-to man. Everyone in the career guidance office at the Department of Social Services knows it.

So of course the new hire is delivered right to the door of his office one rare rainy Monday morning, looking like a drowned rat, carrying what has obviously been your school backpack for many years, a worn looking specimen with a chipped zipper and a blotchy ink stain marring the nylon material. You’re clad in cheap polyester office attire, a gray skirt and blazer that are off the rack, not quite fitting you properly. The hem of the skirt hits your legs at an awkward level. The sleeves of the jacket are too short. Your pinned hair is already falling out of place. He can feel the nervous energy wafting from you. But he’s good at these types of situations, accustomed to dealing with anxious job applicants from less than ideal backgrounds. He can handle some new college grad.

He’d rather not, of course; he prefers working alone. It’s more efficient. Faster. You’re going to make the day difficult, he can already tell. Still he plasters on a fake smile and drags one of the chairs intended for clients around his desk, still leaving room between his own leather specimen and the mustard yellow vinyl padded hardback that’s a relic from the 1970’s.

“Welcome. I’m Steve Raglan.” His hand shake is firm, confident. Your own is tentative, weak. You’re going to have to work on that. “You can put your things down over there.” He gestures towards a small table in the corner next to a spare ream of copy paper. Down goes the backpack and out comes a spiral bound notebook and a pink pen that looks to be decorated in rainbows and is that glitter? You sit stiffly in the chair and fold back the cover of the notebook, then lay the writing utensil on top of it. After an awkward pause you clear your throat, swiping at one of the stray damp hairs trailing across your cheek. The silence lengthens. Steve’s chair creaks as he leans forward. “Where did you study?”

“University of Utah.”

“You from that area?” You nod. “First time away from home?” Another nod. He suppresses the urge to sigh. Great. He was going to have to deal with you being homesick at some point, too. Salt Lake City was at the opposite end of Utah. A good four hour drive north, minimum. “What made you end up here?”

“I went online to see other social workers in the state. You have a great reputation. A lot of awards.” You nod in the direction of the framed papers on the walls. “So I thought: why not learn from the best?”

Raglan grunts. The praise means nothing to him. The job doesn’t either, if he’s being perfectly honest. It’s his former profession that’s his true passion. This is just…well, it’s just something to do for the time being, a reliable source of income with the added bonus of sometimes providing ideal recruits for work relating to said former profession. So yes, he’s good at it. But it doesn’t mean he likes it. “You might as well put that away. It’s not a lecture hall. You’re not going to be taking notes. You’re just here to observe. Pay attention to verbal cues. Learn the vernacular. Become accustomed to interacting with people.”

Your cheeks flush. You close the notebook and tuck it inside your backpack but leave the pen out, your fingers fussing anxiously with the rainbow and yes, that is indeed glitter encrusting the clip on the cap. He notices you staring at the things on his desk: the white rabbit’s foot keychain on the ring of keys set next to his eyeglass case; the powder coated rabbit shaped wire frame for sorting mail; the coffee stained coaster with the logo for Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza sitting on the desk blotter, a yellow bear and yellow rabbit standing side by side waving jovially, mouths stretched in toothy grins. “You like rabbits, huh?”

Another dismissive sound escapes the experienced career counselor. He’s not about to explain his fondness, that stubborn nostalgia, to someone like you. Silence descends on the pair once more, heavy and uncomfortable. The burden of conversation seems to have fallen upon his shoulders. “Do you drink coffee?”

You shake your head. “I try to avoid caffeine.”

The bearded man pushes back from the desk, walking over to the small coffee bar lining the wall beneath the solitary window in his office. He leaves the room long enough to fill the pot from the sink in the break room across the hall. Once he returns he fills the reservoir and presses the filter into place, then spoons out coffee grounds, the measurement imprecise, eyeballed from years and years of practice. Finally he flips the orange switch at the base of the machine and his gaze wanders to the window. His office faces the rear of the building. There’s a small pond out back. Trees. Benches. Even a little bit of grass, kind of a rarity in this traditionally arid, desert-like climate. Overall a nice place to have lunch when the weather is good. Not today, obviously. The surface of the pond ripples as each drop of rain strikes it. Everything looks very green. The coffee machine begins to chortle, coughing up angry sounding hisses and spits. Dark liquid emerges in a steady hot trickle. He fills a mug and settles back behind the desk, then takes a sip. Your attention seems to be focused on the awards covering the walls, or perhaps the framed district map nearby. The older man sighs and glances at the clock. It’s five past eight. Another twenty five minutes to go before his first appointment.

It’s going to be a long day.

***

The morning passes relatively uneventfully.

None of the first few clients are particularly problematic. It becomes an automatic reflex to introduce you, the same spiel given each time. You are a new employee, there to observe. Then Steve simply ignores you, pretending you aren’t there and conducting the discussion as he normally would. Mid morning he announces it’s time for a break. You remain sitting. He stands and stretches. He’s six foot four and being seated doesn’t do his body any favors. The crack of the synovial fluid being pushed between the spaces of his joints is loud. The joys of aging, he thinks bitterly. His eyes flick to your seated form. “Get up. Go somewhere.” The sharp tone clearly indicates this is not a suggestion. You jerk to your feet, stepping out into the hallway, and he sighs with relief. Alone at last. He makes his way back to the coffee pot, a little huff of disappointment escaping when he realizes he’s already nearly emptied it. Usually it lasts longer than this. It’s that new employee, setting his nerves on edge a bit, he decides. Perhaps he should wait on brewing another batch.

The voice of the orientee behind him interrupts his thoughts. “I…I don’t really know my way around. I don’t know where to go.”

Steve sets the glass pot back onto the burner and thumbs off the machine. So much for a respite. Now he’s to be a tour guide, too. He knows he’s being a little unfair. Unreasonable. Of course you can’t be expected to know the layout. The routine. It’s only your first day. But it doesn’t rankle any less. So inconvenient. Bothersome. Another sigh rushes from his lips. He doesn’t think he’s ever heaved so many regretful sounds in one day before. “Follow me.” He brushes past you without waiting to see if you’re trailing behind, beginning to point things out. “Restroom, copy room, break room. Emergency exit. The rest of the offices are down this hallway. Another restroom.” He turns and almost stumbles into you. You’re like a shadow, close and clingy. He really doesn’t care for it. “Personal space is something that people tend to respect in this profession.” Another flush. You take a step back. “Further.” Another. “A little more.” Still another. “Better.” You pass the break room again and he gestures towards it. “Why don’t you go spend some time there. Introduce yourself. Think of it as practicing your social skills. Come back in fifteen minutes.”

“I don’t have a watch,” you murmur.

He clucks his tongue. “You need to get one, then. Time is important. Yours. The clients’. You can hardly expect to keep appointments without it. There’s a clock on the wall in there.” The career counselor escapes back to his office. Honestly. They are really testing his patience with this one. He jerks the coffee pot free, his earlier resolve to wait shattering beneath his exasperation. He’s definitely going to need more caffeine to get through the rest of his shift.

***

The real trouble begins in the afternoon.

Steve can smell the alcohol long before the man ever finds his way into the seat across from his desk. His body automatically leans back, away from the applicant, the folder containing the man’s resume and background information clutched in his hands. He does his best to remain professional, keeping his expression neutral while focusing right on the heart of the matter: four terminated positions in as many weeks.

“‘S’not my fault. If my bitch wife hadn’t left—”

“—I’d prefer you not use that language, sir.” Steve interrupts firmly. “And your ex’s affairs are her own. We’re here to discuss you. Your employers state that you’ve been coming into work late, if at all. Poor attendance. Multiple complaints of being rude to customers. The most recent one says that you actually assaulted someone.”

“That’s a fu— a lie,” he corrects.

“Be that as it may. You’re going to need to complete a drug test and enter a rehabilitation program before you’ll even be considered for another position.”

“I don’t have a drinking problem,” he mutters. “You don’t even know me. Just because a few people lied…”

“I’m not here to judge you. I’m simply stating the facts. Our goals are the same. We want to see you employed successfully.”

The drunken man’s eyes shift to you, lingering a little too long on places that clearly aren’t your face. Steve wheels forward again, positioning himself a little in front of his companion as if to shield you from the client’s unsavory gaze.

“I can recommend an excellent local program.” Raglan pulls a drawer open and sets a pamphlet on the desk. “Give them a call. That’s the first step towards getting you back to work and getting your life back in order.”

The applicant makes no move to pick up the offering. “I’m not going.”

“Then I’m afraid there’s nothing more I can do for you.”

“You’re supposed to be getting me a job.”

“You are supposed to be getting yourself a job. I can’t assist you in this current condition.”

“What about her? Maybe she can help me.” Another leer in your direction. You begin to stammer a response.

Steve rises to his feet and the words die in your throat. His fingers are curled tightly against his palms as he glares over the edge of his glasses. “I think you had better leave.”

“Or what?” The job hopeful lurches to his feet and you gasp. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Security will escort you out. Or I will. I really don’t think you want me to be the one to do it.” His voice is cold as he lifts the phone, waiting to see what choice will be made. The client hesitates, the bravado swiftly evaporating. Something terrifying lights the career counselor’s eyes. It’s not an idle threat.

His shoulders slump in defeat. “I’ll leave.”

Steve dials an extension. “Yes. Can you make sure the gentleman leaving my office makes it outside? And he’s not to return. Yes. Thank you.” He drops the phone back down and glances at you. Your eyes are wide, and he can see you shaking. “You alright?” You swallow and nod. “Not every aspect of this job is going to be pleasant. It’s just as well you get a lesson in that now. The key is to maintain control and de-escalate the situation.”

He settles back into his seat, smoothing his tie before shutting the folder and placing the pamphlet back in the drawer.

“What would you have done? If you went outside with him, I mean.”

Raglan flashes a grin that looks anything but friendly. “Don’t worry about it.”

You remain quiet for the rest of the afternoon.

***

The shift finally, mercifully draws to a close.

Steve unhooks the umbrella from the coat rack tucked in the corner, shaking it to dislodge any dust that might have accumulated. It’s unusual for Hurricane to have wet weather, especially prolonged dampness like this. The accessory doesn’t typically see much use, left there for rare occasions such as this one.

You, of course, haven’t brought one. You haven’t even brought a proper jacket, unless you count that ill fitting blazer as protection from the elements. He’s going to have to be a gentleman and walk beside you, shielding you from the inclement weeping of the heavens. Forced to be positioned closer to you than he’d like. The physical contact makes him uncomfortable. He’s used to keeping himself distant. It’s been years since he’s experienced any intimacy. And yet here you are, the imposing dictates of social politeness demanding his body brush against yours, walking you to your car which is quite far from his own. “You need to get here before seven if you want a decent parking spot.” The rain patters on the purple fabric tented above. You nod absently, digging in your backpack for your car keys. “Don’t you have a purse or something?”

“I do, I just didn’t bring it, I thought…”

“Bring it. You don’t need that bag. You’re not in school anymore. It’s not some clunky thing, is it?”

“I mean, it’s a mini backpack.” He glowers disapprovingly. “They’re in fashion right now,” you protest.

“You should have a wallet and car keys. That’s all you need.”

“What if it’s that time of the month?”

Now it’s Steve’s turn to look uncomfortable. “Fine. Just…bring whatever you have tomorrow.”

“Found them!” You withdraw your key ring, giving it a little shake. The disapproving stare hasn’t wavered. “Thanks for putting up with me today.” Your voice is quiet, barely audible in the downpour.

“It’s my job.” He shrugs, swapping the hand holding the umbrella.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” He waits until you’ve unlocked the car before stepping aside, keeping you covered for as long as possible. He doesn’t know why he’s making such an effort. Just the polite thing to do, he supposes. The interior of your car is alarmingly pink and bedazzled. Pink material lines the cup holders and covers the steering wheel and the seats. Little jeweled cat faces are clipped to the air vents and one larger specimen dangles from the rearview mirror. You notice him staring. “It’s Hello Kitty.”

”I’m aware.” His daughter had gone through that phase, though at a much younger age. He scowls but says nothing.

”Some people like bunnies. I like cats,” you offer a bit smugly.

You did kind of have a point. “It’s fine,” he says grudgingly. As if you needed his permission to like something. Of course you don’t. And he hardly needs to defend his own attachments. “To each their own. Until tomorrow.” He begins making the trek back across the parking lot to his own vehicle, a dark vintage sedan. He struggles to close the umbrella before settling behind the wheel of the Ford Fairmont. His Aviators are foggy and smeared with moisture. He lets the engine run for a few minutes, waiting for the windshield to clear while trying to find a dry surface to clear his lenses with.

A car horn startles him. He glances in the rearview mirror and recognizes your automobile behind his. You emerge hurriedly from the car and dive back into the deluge, that ridiculous book bag clutched above your head as an insufficient impromptu umbrella to shield you from the torrent. He groans, rapidly cranking his window down. No power controls here; everything was manual. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I forgot which way I’m going when I get out of here. My mind is totally drawing a blank. My apartment’s downtown, off of Main Street…”

Steve sighs. You really are testing the limits of his patience.

[mumuscae]

ARTW: EXTRATERRESTRIAL! SPICA

Sorry to the people who voted for vega to be next in the server but hes not the birthday boy and this was the perfect chance to post spica 💔

I am so sorry for the slow updates on this im a busy person with a job and 300 hobbies unfortunately 💔 UPDATES WONT BE SO SLOW ANYMORE I SWEAR IT WONT TAKE MONTHS 😭😭😭😭 very sorry

Disclaimer! A lot of this is my own personal tastes and how I, Mimi Mumuscae, would write and design these characters. If you do not like it, you do not have to! That is fine if you like the canon and original versions! I like them too! This is a completely self indulgent project.

More info below! :3

Design changes made:

Coat change! Gave him a long coat because I want him to stand out as the leader of the guide committee with a distinct silhouette, and it makes him look like a more imposing authority figure.

The boots. Because i can. I like drawing them. Sorry to his horse girl boots he had before but he can have those for a diff outfit <3

Longer hair!! Bro is 200+ years old let him have super long hair

Nothing else really!! His canon design already got the point of his character across otherwise. I did tuck his hair behind his ear but thats just to make it easier for me to draw since i suck 💔

Other character changes/tidbits!!

Spica!! Leader (or, one of the leaders..) of the Guide Committee!

The Guide Committee is the middle management between the Great Sorcerers, and the average sorcerers. (including those outside of Contell, much to their dismay.) They are basically the errand boys for the Great Sorcerers, and also their PR team. They have authority on paper, but none of that is respected or acknowledged by majority of Sorcerers.

Spica is in simple terms, Schedars personal assistant.

For ET Spica, acknowledgement from his superiors is a motivating factor for him in everything he does as a sorcerer. Of course he has other goals and ambitions, but feeling important and how he’s percieved by authority figures matters very much to him due to reasons that ill delve into later

However he’s very average in the magic department, so he can’t receive acknowledgment from anyone in that area. So instead he builds his character around being a hard worker, and a good worker. He’s very good at immediately switching from “stern boss” to the committee, to “good employee” to his superiors, as well as overall people pleasing attitudes when he must. He’d do great in customer service!!

He’s also managed to get himself in the position of Fili Pfeper’s Contell Representative, and is seeking out to take position of the head of the clan in place of Regulus. (Who continues to refuse him)

Onto his magic :D

He specializes in Traditional Magic, which is the form of magic that was widely used prior to the Great Disaster. It’s considered the fundamentals of magic, the medium all future spells were built upon. It focuses on drawn out sigils, rituals, and incantations, that have long been lost amongst modern sorcerers. The current climate of magic was caused by the revolution of magic created after Polaris’ studies were publicized. Spica would claim his reasonings for using it are for a deeper understanding of magic…

And thats all!! I want him to have more character motivation… and overall interest..??? Hes very bland unfortunately. Most of his potential was cut short by the abrupt ending sorrytaco gave to him 😔 i love spica a lot. I have more for him. But its for later.. when i get to it… which i will…

Other characters completed: POLLUX

[bodybeyondstories]

story prompt: A tailor has the power to enchant clothes to change the wearers body and does so when clients have unreasonable asks. like a guy with a flat butt ask for pants that flatter his rear so the tailor inflates his butt out of proportion…that kind of thing

My first thought with this was what if there was some sort of less than ethical business model based on forming a runaway positive feedback loop where someone had to keep coming back to have clothes altered and then ended up altered in some way, which would be fun to write eventually. Here I riffed on some classic careful-what-you-wish-for ass expansion.

1313 words

_____________

"You might have to adjust the seat a little, I've been hitting leg day pretty hard." Danny glanced down at me with an expectant smirk as I ran the measuring tape across his backside.

"Whatever you say, Cake Boss," I said, pretending the number wasn't exactly what it always was. "I might need to run and get a few more yards of fabric for this dump truck."

"Big butts are in style and I need to show off these gains." He swung his hips back toward the mirror to check himself out, eyes focusing expectantly on an unremarkable backside.

Are the gains in the room with us now? I thought, chuckling out loud.

Danny and I were good friends, and as such, he occasionally took advantage of the very generous friends and family discount for my tailoring services. This time, he wanted to get his suit refitted for the upcoming commitment ceremony of our mutual friends and favorite throuple, Jean, Gene, and Jerome, who were officially, begrudgingly, tying the three way knot. He had been through my shop no less than six times in the past several months, begging for an adjustment of this or that pair of trousers in anticipation of whatever new workout routine he had jumped into. He was obsessed with his ass, specifically--tragically--its undeniable flatness. I was a damn good tailor, but I could only do so much. News I had to break to him on a regular basis.

"Can't you like, work your magic or something?" he asked, winking down at me.

I thought for a long moment and relented, feet taking me toward the back of the shop. "I can try."

I reached behind my desk and pulled out a well worn notebook, decorated by decades of page folding, sticky noting, coffee staining, and annotating. It was one of many strange, sentimental pieces of inheritance I received from my mother, a practitioner of the craft who disappeared with her coven years ago. I was left with half memories of their gatherings, what little training I had paid attention to growing up, and of course, this notebook, my own annotations slowly forming a cross-generational palimpsest.

Occasionally, especially with my more tedious clients, I'll let my hobby cross into the tailoring business, enchanting the fabric with whatever magical push the wearing needs to feel their best self.

I pulled out a container of ink--hand made from ingredients foraged sustainably under the light of a full moon--and drew out what I hoped was the right mix of sigils for illusion and manifestation, sprinkled with a little bit of chaos, to give Danny the booty of his dreams. I stitched the small slip of paper into the waistband of his pants and handed them back to try on.

He slipped each leg in and pulled them up his toned quads, gasping as he stopped suddenly at the top of his hamstrings. What usually slipped on with minimal effort was now blocked by a perky bubble butt perched behind him.

"Nice!" he exclaimed, giving his newly hefty ass a jiggle. "I knew you could do it."

---

I rolled into the ceremony just as it was starting and posted up in one of the empty rows towards the back. As I passed the gaggle of bridesmates, gentlethems, attendants and henchmen (they all got to pick their own terms), Danny gave me a wink and a thumbs up, adjusting his waistline as the procession began.

As they walked down the aisle, I got a better look at my handiwork, and apparently so did everyone else. When he had left my shop his ass had looked delectably round and perky, but the pair of cheeks fighting for space as he strutted towards the front were on another level. They looked big. Really big.

Maybe it was the light? I tried to convince myself with a twinge of worry. I kept my gaze as professional as possible as he stood at the front with the rest of the attendants with his shoulders squared and hands clasped firmly in front of him. As the ceremony progressed, he seemed increasingly uncomfortable, squirming in place as he shifted from one foot to the other, the tails of his suit jacket riding up over his meaty buns.

Those cheeks were definitely bigger than they were during the fitting. In fact, they were bigger than they were twenty minutes ago. The sheen of sweat on his forehead and small winces of discomfort confirmed what I--and likely others--had picked up on. His ass was inflating imperceptibly but undeniably.

Something must have gone wrong with the spell. Or maybe something went too right? I don't know. I hoped I could intervene before things got out of hand, but time was quickly running out on that plan. The attendant behind him took a step back as his ass slowly ballooned from his otherwise slim frame, straining the fabric of his pants to their limit.

Even a magically enhanced pair of trousers can only take so much. When Jean, Gene, and Jerome were two thirds of the way through the sharing of vows, the seat of Danny's pants finally gave way, revealing his now basketball sized buns spilling into the open air clad in a pair of plaid bikini briefs.

A shockwave of gasps and murmurs spread through the crowd. "Ooo girl," "Need his leg routine," "The whole bakery..." could be heard among the general whispers of surprise and politely restrained chuckles. Danny, face a flush of embarrassment, tried to hold what remained of the seat of his pants together as he slunk away, the attendant behind him quickly taking his place before the soon to be betrothed could notice the commotion or his wildly jiggling buns disappearing out of sight.

I found him behind the reception tent, clutching my handbag full of emergency repair materials for just this situation. But I quickly came to realize that some heavy duty thread and patches wouldn't be enough.

"Dude, it won't stop!" he exclaimed, trying and failing to cover the globes of his ass. "What do we do?!"

"Okay, um," I said, grasping wildly for solutions, "I have my notebook, I can try and figure something out on the fly. Just take your pants off and the growth should stop."

"...I can't."

"What do you mean you can't?"

"I mean I can't!" he snapped, turning to show me the waistband stuck just below his hips, unbuttoned and stretched to the limit yet still woefully incapable of making it over his massive--and still slowly expanding--posterior.

"Okay, Plan B," I said, reaching into my bag. I brandished a seam ripper as I turned him around and traced the waistband of his pants until I found where I had installed the sigil. "Wow," I muttered, marveling at a pair of globular, gravity defying glutes that were nothing short of a work of art.

"What's up?" he asked, panic rising in his voice.

"Nothing, nothing, it's just...it's a lot..."

"Yeah I think we've all figured that out. Can we address this crisis while I still have any hope of wearing normal clothes?"

"Right." I snapped back into focus, searching along the seams for my signature stitch. "Found it!" I beamed, slicing through with one deft cut and yanking the sigil from the fabric.

"Thank fuck," he whispered. "Can you stitch this back up before the reception?"

"Yeah, I should have everything here, just let me--"

I was cut off by the unmistakable soft staccato of seams tearing. With the spell broken, and the pants returned to their mundane state, the overstressed fabric no longer stood a chance against the melons ballooning from Danny's lower back. Seams split one after the other as what was left of his pants fluttered apart, revealing every extensive curve of his beyond bodacious butt.

"Okay," I said. "I might have some spandex in the car."