#and most of the concepts i do have are still only like... half figured out even design wise so it's a long process

[deadbeandrop]

"average camp lazlo fan has 5 camp lazlo OCs" factoid actualy just statistical error. average camp lazlo fan has maybe 1 or 2 camp lazlo OCs. tumblr user syd deadbeandrop, who lives in cave & has at least 43, is an outlier adn should not have been counted

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Thirty

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, strong language, time-skips, the absolute shit-show that was the first half of the 2023 season.

Notes — Amelia being McLaren's literal saviour? IKTR

2023 (Saudi Arabia — Silverstone)

The paddock in Bahrain had started to quiet down after qualifying, the desert heat finally slipping away into a cooler breeze. Amelia was walking through the paddock, steps quick and stride polished, muttering statistics under her breath and trying to burn off some extra energy before debriefs were due to begin.

“Amelia.”

She turned. Adrian stood just outside Red Bull’s motorhome, hands in his pockets, watching her with a thoughtful expression.

“Hi, Adrian,” she greeted, smiling politely at the man she’d once idolised who had become something more reminiscent of a friend over the last two years.

“Do you have a minute?” He asked.

She gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Sure.”

He gestured for them to walk a little away from the thinning crowds. “I’ve been wanting to speak with you since testing, but I figured it was better in person rather than on the phone.”

Amelia waited, quiet.

Adrian glanced toward the Red Bull garage, then back at her. “You have done something incredible,” he said. “The car — it’s… brutally efficient. Elegant, even. It’s the cleanest thing I’ve seen come out of our CFD pipeline in five years. Maybe longer.”

Amelia’s brow ticked up. “Thank you.”

He studied her for a moment, brow furrowed slightly. “So why did you leave, Amelia? You could’ve ridden that thing straight through another championship with Max. Earned the credit. The spotlight. A long, solid legacy.”

“I didn’t need to,” she said simply.

He blinked, thrown off. “Didn’t need to… win?”

“I didn’t need credit,” she clarified. “That was never the point. Max knows that this years car is ours — mine and his, in a way. You know, too. That’s enough for me.”

“You designed one of the most dominant aero concepts I’ve seen in a decade,” Adrian said, still incredulous. “And walked away before it even hit the track?”

Amelia nodded. Shrugged. “I didn't build the car for glory. I built it because I knew what it could be. And then I gave my concepts to you, so that you would make them happen, and you did.” She pursed her lips. “Max didn’t need me anymore. He knows how to handle a championship. He’s done it twice, now.”

“And McLaren does need you?” Adrian pressed.

“Yes,” she said. Smiled. “They do. Oscar too.”

Adrian looked at her like he was trying to understand a language he didn’t speak. Slowly, he said, “You’ve created a car that will be remembered for generations.”

“I know.”

“And you don’t care that you won’t get the credit?”

“No,” she said. “Doesn’t change what I did.”

There was a long silence, the dusk settling over them in a soft hush.

Adrian let out a slow breath, almost reverent. “I admire it, you know. Even if I don’t understand it.”

Amelia gave him the faintest smirk. “That’s okay. I’m not an easy person to understand.”

“No,” Adrian agreed. “But you’re very, very good.” He paused. “God, sometimes, Amelia, I wonder if maybe you’re better than me.”

“I might be. One day,” she said, and turned to go.

—

The debrief room was quiet, too quiet.

Oscar sat back in his chair, legs outstretched, eyes on the floor. His race suit was half-unzipped, his undershirt sweat-darkened at the collar. Amelia sat at the head of the small conference table, her iPad flat in front of her, her stylus spinning slowly between her fingers.

“Well,” Oscar said dryly. “That was shit.”

Amelia’s lips twitched. “You’re not wrong.”

He tilted his head. “Can I ask something?”

“Of course you can.” She frowned at him.

Oscar looked over at her, brow creased faintly. “You knew the car wasn’t going to be good this year. You warned me. So why did you still come back to McLaren?”

Amelia leaned back in her chair, thought about it, then shrugged. “Well, you were a big part of it.”

Oscar blinked at her.

“You needed somebody who was able to make the most of a bad situation,” she said. “Not someone who’d write it off before the lights went out. You’re better than the car right now. But the car won’t stay this way forever; I promise you that.”

Oscar was quiet for a moment. “Right. Thanks,” he said eventually, voice low.

“Don’t get sentimental,” Amelia said, flicking a button on her iPad. “We’re both going to be angry for a while, at least until I can fix this.”

He nodded, some of the stiffness leaving his shoulders. “Fine by me.”

She tapped through to the race data, then looked up. “Okay. So. Let’s talk lap one.”

Oscar squinted. “What was wrong with lap one?”

“You braked late into Turn 10. Just like you did in qualifying.”

“Maybe the corner needs to come sooner,” he muttered, deadpan.

Amelia rolled her eyes. “Maybe you just need more time in the sim.”

Oscar made a face. “If I spend any more time in it than you already make me do, I might merge with the chair.”

They dove into the telemetry together then — back and forth, sharp and focused, their language slowly becoming shorthand. She pointed out throttle traces, he challenged her on strategy calls. She fired back with sector deltas, he offered precise corner feedback.

By the time they were done, an hour had passed.

Oscar leaned back, drained but calmer. “You’re intense.”

“Yeah,” Amelia said, unapologetically. “I’m also right, most of the time.”

He nodded. “Yeah. You are.”

She packed up her iPad, stood, and gestured toward the door. “Come on, ducky,” she said. “My husband is probably pacing somewhere, lamenting about how shit his car is. We need to stop him before he spirals.”

Oscar made a face as he got to his feet. “I don’t like being ducky.”

Amelia shrugged, unconcerned. “Too bad. You are.”

He sighed. “Why can’t I just be Oscar?”

“You can,” she said simply. “But you’re ducky too. Both can be true.”

Oscar blinked at her, clearly expecting more of an explanation. Amelia paused in the doorway, tilting her head like she was debating whether to explain. Then she did — bluntly, honestly, in her Amelia way. “Nicknames are… structure,” she said. “They help me sort people. Feelings. Connections. If I nickname you, it means I’ve decided I trust you. It’s like… mental shorthand. Emotional filing.”

Oscar’s brow furrowed. “Like… categories?”

“Exactly,” she said, eyes lighting up slightly. “It’s not random. It means something. I call you ducky because you’re calm on the surface and all chaos underneath, and also because you look like someone who would fall asleep in a bathtub. And because I like you. You’ve earned it.”

He stared at her. “I… don’t know what to do with that.”

“You don’t have to do anything with it,” she said, already halfway down the hall. “Just know that it means I’ve put you in the ‘safe’ column.”

Oscar followed, a little dazed. “That’s a lot to attach to a duck.”

Amelia smiled to herself. “Also, my husband kept saying that I imprinted on you like a mother duck, so…”

They rounded the corner and found said husband, Lando, in the corridor, muttering to himself with a piece of tyre compound data pulled up on his phone.

Oscar pointed wordlessly.

Amelia just sighed. “See? Spiralling. I told you.” She stepped forward, nudged the phone down, and gently took her husband’s hand. “Hey,” she said. “You did well with what you had.”

Lando looked between the two of them, Amelia’s steady face, Oscar’s unreadable one, and let out a breath that was mostly a laugh. “We’re going to be fucking shit this year, aren’t we?” He asked.

Amelia sighed. “I hope not. I’m already trying to get my hands on the car, but the cost cap is preventing me from making any significant changes this early…”

Lando pouted at his wife.

“Pizza?” Oscar asked.

Amelia’s head snapped around in his direction. “Yes!”

Lando was still pouting when he said, “Sure. Yeah. Whatever. Depression pizza. Yay!”

—

The glass walls of the office reflected the glow of early evening. Outside, the MTC lake was still, pale with late-winter. Inside, Amelia sat at the head of the table with her knees drawn up in the chair, a pink, battered notebook open in front of her.

Andrea leaned in to look closer. “You did this all by hand?”

Amelia didn’t look up. “I think better with a pen and paper.”

Her dad, seated opposite her, turned a few pages. His brows rose as he scanned carefully drawn schematics, annotated calculations, wind tunnel projections, notes in tiny, slanted handwriting. Everything from ride height tweaks to theoretical suspension layouts to predicted competitor development trends.

“This is a full concept,” Andrea said, quietly impressed. “This is… years worth of work.”

“Just a few weeks,” Amelia said. “That’s not just theory in there, though. That’s a car.”

Zak sat back, flipping to the final page. It was labelled, in block capitals, with an underlined title.

PROJECT: MCL38-AN

Underneath, in her neat writing.

It’ll win if you trust it.

He looked up. “This will put us back on top?”

“I know it will,” Amelia said, finally meeting their eyes. “Everything I’ve learned — from Red Bull, from Max, from every telemetry graph and CFD failure and stupid porpoising issue in the last two years — I used it all. And not just to make something clever. To make something fast. Reliable. Adaptable.”

Andrea gently closed the notebook. “This is championship-level ambition.”

“It’s more than ambition,” Amelia said. “It’s your 2024 car. The notebook is yours now.”

Her dad raised his eyebrows. “You don’t want to keep it?”

She shrugged. “No. I won’t need it, but you will. I’ve already made a million copies, but I’d like you to keep the original.”

Her dad looked at her and reached for the notebook again with something like reverence. “We’re going to need to start assembling a team around this immediately.” He said.

“I already started,” she told him. “Tom in aero’s got preliminary CFD models. Jordan’s been mocking up rear suspension geometry in CAD for two weeks.”

Andrea laughed softly, almost disbelieving. “You went over our heads?”

“I’m not very good at leaving things to chance,” she said. “And our car this year is awful. So bad. I needed to start making something happen, even if most of it will have to wait until next year.”

Her dad stood and leaned across the table, hand on the notebook. “Honey, this is…”

“Yours. Ours.” She said.

Andrea let out a breath.

Her dad stared at her for a beat, and then he was beaming.

—

It was nearly midnight, and the MTC was mostly dark — save for the soft hum of light in the engineering wing. Amelia sat on the floor of her office, legs crossed, iPad glowing in her lap.

Oscar lay stretched out on the rug in front of her, still in his training kit, a protein shake abandoned next to him. Lando was in her desk chair, spinning gently, half-asleep and barefoot.

“This is the weirdest sleepover I’ve ever been to,” Oscar muttered.

“You say that every time you hang out with us,” Lando replied, yawning.

“I mean it every time.” Oscar said.

Amelia didn’t look up. “Shut up. I’m trying to change the trajectory of your entire careers right now.”

That got their attention.

Lando leaned forward. “What are you doing, baby?”

Amelia turned the iPad so they could both see the screen. Her voice was calm, even, but there was a thread of something bright underneath it. “This is going to be your 2024 car.”

Oscar blinked. “You—what?”

She tapped through a few screens: 3D renders, rear suspension models, aero flow maps. “Codename MCL38-AN. I told you both that I already had it planned out, didn’t I?”

Oscar sat up straighter. “You really think that’ll put us at the front of the grid?”

“Yes,” she said. “You’re driving scrap metal right now, I won’t lie. It’s holding you both back. But this car—” she tapped the image again “—this is what we’re building toward. This is the one. The team just needs time. I need time.”

Oscar was staring at the iPad, wide eyed. “You’re sure.”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything. All I need is for you to keep showing up. To keep believing. We’re not going to be at the back of the grid forever.”

Lando stood, walked over, and looked down at the designs for a long moment. “It’s beautiful,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

“Why are you showing us now?”

“Because,” she said, glancing between them, “I can’t ask you to keep suffering through this season unless you have a reason. A future. This is your future. You’ll win races in this car.”

Oscar laughed, breathless and stunned. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah,” Amelia said, finally smiling. “Holy shit.”

Lando slid down onto the floor beside her, shoulder brushing hers. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Us. This team. This sport.”

“Thanks,” she said.

Oscar pointed at the iPad again. “Can I name it?”

“No.” She said.

“Can I drive it now?” He asked.

“It doesn’t exist yet.” She told him.

“Then can I keep being your ducky?”

She looked at him, bemused. “You want to be ducky now?”

“I’m reconsidering my argument,” he muttered. “Out of loyalty…”

Lando was grinning. “We’re going to win championships, aren’t we?”

Amelia nodded. Smiled at her husband. Kissed him. “Yes. We are.”

—

They got back to Monaco well past midnight, Lando wordless beside her in the car. The race had been brutal. Another pointless race. Another weekend where the car hadn’t performed, and the looped back data had made her want to throw her laptop into the Red Sea.

But home was home.

Amelia dropped her bags in the entryway, kicked off her trainers, and walked straight to the kitchen, wordlessly opening the fridge. She fished out a can of Diet Coke and pressed it to her forehead.

Behind her, Lando wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder.

"You gonna fire me?” He asked quietly.

She laughed despite the burning itch under her skin. “No. You did your best.”

“Yeah.” He exhaled against her neck.

They stood like that for a beat. Amelia breathed in the scent of his hoodie and let the familiar weight of him soothe the static in her chest. He was solid. Warm. Hers.

Finally, she turned around and kissed his jaw. “It’ll get better.”

Lando nodded. “Good. Because I’m getting real tired of seeing you more frustrated than smug.”

She cracked a smile. “I’m always smug.”

“There she is.”

—

Amelia didn’t cook often, but when she did, it was loud, chaotic, and always somewhat efficient.

Oscar sat at the breakfast bar, watching her with mild horror as she chopped onions at a blinding speed.

“You’re a very violent chef,” he observed.

“The quicker it’s done, the better,” she said. “Now pass me the basil, ducky.”

He handed it over. “Still don’t particularly like being called that.”

“Don’t care.” She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Do you want red or white wine?”

—

The living room was littered with discarded Uno cards, an empty pizza box, and the remains of someone’s sprite can that Max Fewtrell had been using as a drum for the last ten minutes.

“You are cheating,” Pietra said flatly, accusing Lando with a pointed look.

“I’m just playing strategically.”

Amelia, half-asleep on the sofa with her feet in Lando’s lap, mumbled, “Strategically being a little shit, yeah.”

“Don’t hate the player,” Lando shot back, tugging her ankle gently. “Hate the wife.”

“You’ll sleep on the couch for that,” she muttered, eyes still closed.

Max Verstappen arrived late, as usual. Amelia opened one eye when he collapsed beside her on the sofa and started picking at the leftover cold garlic bread.

“Missed you.” She told him sleepily.

“Missed you too, zusje.” He said.

She leaned her head briefly against his shoulder.

—

The Spanish GP had been marginally better than the ones that’d come before. Still not good. But better.

Back at the airport, Oscar sat cross-legged on the floor, headphones in, while Amelia reviewed strategy notes and Lando bought three Snickers and two iced teas.

Lando dropped next to her with a huff, his arm winding around her waist, hand flexing before squeezing her hip. “I’m considering sabotage.”

“Of?”

“The car. I’m gonna drive it into a lake or something.”

Oscar pulled one headphone off. “Wouldn’t it sink?”

Lando stared at him. “That’s your concern?”

“Hydrodynamics are important.” Oscar smirked.

Amelia sighed. “You’re both ridiculous.”

Lando grinned. “You love it.”

She didn’t reply, just leaned closer, then passed him a highlighter. “Help me mark the wind tunnel data.”

—

They’d flown into Spielberg a little early to prep and decompress. Amelia had her notes. Lando had brought five pairs of sunglasses and absolutely no socks. Oscar was, predictably, already on his fifth stretch of the legs down the paddock.

The three of them walked the track together at sunset, shoes crunching against the gravel.

“You know,” Amelia said, glancing between the two drivers, “if either of you crashes this weekend, I won’t be happy.”

“Would you leave me for dead?” Oscar asked, deadpan.

“Yes.” She lied.

“She wouldn’t,” Lando said.

Amelia looked ahead, wind tugging at her hair, then back at the boys; her husband and her ducky.

This job was hell. The car was beyond flawed. The season wasn’t what they’d hoped.

But this, this team, this family, this effort, felt like something worth holding onto.

—

Silverstone came, and there was a shift.

It wasn’t everything. But it was something.

Amelia stood just outside the McLaren garage, arms crossed over her chest, watching the mechanics finish prepping the car for FP1.

The upgraded floor. The reshaped side-pods. The altered rear suspension geometry she’d argued over for weeks.

It was all here. On track. Real.

It wasn’t perfect — of course it wasn’t. The budget cap had demanded compromises. She hadn’t been able to implement the full package she’d thrown together back in March. That version of the MCL60 was meaner, leaner, cleverer — a little monster of a thing. A title fighter.

But this was the one they could afford. And she’d made it the best it could be.

Oscar stepped beside her, helmet tucked under his arm, race suit halfway unzipped. “Doesn’t look like a paper towel on wheels anymore.”

She hummed. “No. More like... a reinforced napkin. Maybe a placemat.”

He gave her a sideways glance. “How confident are you?”

She exhaled slowly. “Seventy percent we’re in the points. Fifty percent one of you surprises me. Zero percent we DNF. I’ve triple-checked the aero modelling. You’re safe.”

He nodded, quiet for a moment. Then, “I know it’s not what you wanted.”

“No,” she said honestly. “It’s not. But it’s what we’ve got. And it’s good enough to fight for points rather than the chequered flag.”

Oscar squeezed her shoulder. Tight. “I trust you.”

There was something boyish in the way he said it. Uncomplicated. She smiled and nudged him toward the car. “Go, ducky.”

“Still don’t like that.”

“Don’t care.”

—

By Sunday, the paddock was electric.

The buzz was real. The performance gains were visible. And people were talking.

After qualifying, someone from Sky asked Lando if he felt like McLaren were back in the fight for ‘best of the rest’.

He didn’t even hesitate. “Yes. We’ve got Amelia Norris to thank for that.”

That one made her throat pinch.

Later, back in the garage, she caught Andrea’s eye as he leaned over the pit wall screens. He grinned, then gave her a thumbs-up.

Even her dad, who’d spent the last several months managing expectations to sponsors and shareholders, gave her a bear hug that nearly knocked her clipboard out of her hands.

“You’ve made believers out of us again, kiddo,” he said into her ear. “They’re already asking about 2024.”

Amelia stepped back and smiled tightly. “Let us get through this race first.”

—

Lando was flying. Oscar was right on his gearbox. And Amelia was vibrating in her seat, headset digging into her ears.

The car wasn’t just competitive; it was racy. Bold. Alive.

She and Will traded glances as they watched Lando chase down Lewis.

“This is all you,” Will said.

She didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Her heart was somewhere near her throat.

Oscar’s voice crackled in her ear. “Is this what driving a real car feels like?”

Amelia couldn’t help it, she laughed. “Keep it clean, ducky. Still a few laps to go.”

“Is my wife crying tears of joy right now?” Lando asked over his radio. “I bet she is.”

“She is.” Will said.

“Liar.” Amelia laughed, and okay, maybe she did sound a bit choked up.

—

The crowd was still roaring and Amelia was frozen beside the pit wall, headset hair sticking out from under her cap, breathing like she’d just done the full length of the race herself.

It wasn’t a win.

But it was enough.

Lando ran up behind her and flung his arms around her shoulders, lifting her slightly off the ground as she shrieked.

“Put me down, you sweaty idiot—!”

“We did it!”

“You did it.”

“No,” Lando said, spinning her once before finally setting her down. “You did.”

He kissed her, quick and messy, and the cameras were definitely watching, but she didn’t care. She’d earned this moment.

Oscar wandered over and offered her a half-hearted fist bump.

“Better than a placemat,” he grinned lopsidedly.

“Almost a dinner plate,” she agreed.

He laughed, and then he took her to watch the podium.

Max on top. Lewis next. And then her Lando.

Her husband.

Beaming right at her.

She made Oscar hug her. Needed the deep-pressure to cut through the overwhelming joy coursing through her veins. Somebody took a picture and posted it on Twitter with the tag ‘Best racer/engineer duo EVER’.

—

Amelia was sitting cross-legged on their hotel bed, notebook open in her lap, notes scribbled in every margin.

Lando walked out of the shower, towel around his waist, hair damp.

“You’re still working?”

She looked up. “I’m trying to figure out how to sneak in another mini upgrade before Qatar.”

Lando crossed the room and kissed the top of her head. “You’re mad, you know.”

Amelia frowned. “I’m not.”

He slid into bed beside her. “C’mere. Work can wait till tomorrow.”

She paused, then closed the notebook and handed it to him. “Don’t lose it,” she warned. “That’s the future in your hands.”

He looked at the cover, scuffed, dented, covered in papaya and coffee stains, and held it like it was a sacred text.

“We’re going to have podium celebration sex now.” She told him. “I bought chequered flag lingerie.”

His eyes went wide. “Oh—Holy shit. You did?”

She smiled. 

NEXT CHAPTER

[404creep]

Breaking The Ice (Judd Birch X Jessi Glaser Older! Sister Reader)

Summary: You and Judd have been in school together since elementary school.

This is kind of related to the drabble I put out a long time ago. Lots of people have been reading that and asking for new Judd content so I figured I’d pause of my Simon Riley series to write this. Hope ya’ll like it. May do a second part from Judd’s perspective and then a third chapter showing them actually getting together if this gets enough interaction. As always if you see any errors….no you didn’t.

If she was being honest with herself (and she really did try to be, more often than not) she hadn’t noticed Judd Birch at first.

Back in elementary school, he was background noise. Just another name on the attendance sheet, another kid kicking gravel at recess. Maybe she could’ve picked his face out of a lineup if she squinted, but probably not. He wasn’t loud, but he wasn’t exactly shy either. He didn’t blend in so much as linger around the edges, watching with that half-lidded stare that made him look way too tired for a third grader. Like he was already over it. Like he was clocking every detail and filing it away somewhere private.

And she hadn’t noticed him noticing her.

Not until middle school, anyway. That’s when he started showing up.

He’d gotten tall. Fast. In that awkward, almost unsettling way boys do, like his limbs were rebelling against the concept of symmetry. There was something off about him: sharp angles, quiet intensity, a kind of stillness that didn’t match the usual chaos of the Birch household. His eyes lingered too long. Not creepy. Just… focused. Like he was studying people. Measuring them.

She didn’t like how often she caught him looking.

When Jessi said she was hanging out with Judd’s little brother, Nick, she’d braced for weird. It had to run in the family, right?

But Nick was… different.

Nick was a completely different beast. Loud, messy, always in motion. He talked with his whole body. He wanted to be liked. Judd didn’t seem to care if anyone liked him at all. If Nick was the show, Judd was the curtain. The frame. There, but apart. Not unwelcome. Just… separate.

It was kind of wild how the Birch family didn’t try to fix him. They didn’t ignore him, either. He wasn’t the black sheep, he was just a part of the herd that did his own thing. Like maybe being weird wasn’t something to outgrow. Just something to be nurtured. Even if no one really understood it.

Then came freshman year. Biology class.

They got paired up. Not by choice. She still remembered how he looked at her when their names were called: like he already knew it was going to happen. Like the universe was playing along with something only he could see.

He loved dissections. Frogs, fetal pigs, anything with guts. His eyes lit up in this completely unhinged way, and it was honestly a little terrifying. So she took over the paperwork. It was better than having him hover while she tried not to stab herself with a scalpel.

And weirdly? It worked. They worked. Efficient. Surprisingly chill. He didn’t talk much, but when he did, it caught her off guard. Sharp thoughts, quiet voice, that same too-long stare.

She never knew what to say back. But she wanted to.

By sophomore year, he was gone. Different classes. Different hallways. That thing they had (whatever it was) just kind of faded.

Until she started driving.

She’d just gotten her license, and that came with the responsibility of driving her sister around. Which meant dropping her off and picking her up from the Birch house. Most of the time she sat in the car, engine running, scrolling on her phone or staring out the windshield. But sometimes (too many times for it to be random) Judd came outside instead.

And he never said hi like a normal person.

One day it was, “I’m training raccoons to freak out Nick.” Another time he asked if she wanted drugs, deadpan, like it was a casual Tuesday hobby.

She always laughed. Because he was ridiculous. Because it felt like he wanted her to laugh. Because deep down, she kind of liked how absurd it all was. Like he was throwing her a test, just to see if she’d flinch.

It wasn’t flirting. Not really.

But it wasn’t nothing either.

It was… weirdly electric. Like every conversation was a sequel to one they’d never actually had. He’d stand there, blue dyed hair and deadpanned eyes, looking like the rules didn’t apply to him. And she’d cross her arms and pretend not to care. Pretend she wasn’t waiting for whatever he’d say next.

Maybe it didn’t mean anything.

But sometimes he looked at her like it did. Like she was supposed to understand something he hadn’t said out loud yet.

And she hated how much she wanted to.

Then there was that Friday. Late October. Cold air, crunchy leaves, the kind of day that made everything feel just a little closer, a little slower. Jessi was taking forever inside, probably still talking. Judd stepped out onto the porch.

No greeting. Just, “I’ve been designing suits for the raccoons. Little vests. One of them’s getting a bow tie.”

She blinked. Let it sit for a beat. Then said, “Are they unionized yet, or are you still exploiting their labor?”

He lit up.

Not just in his eyes. His whole face. Like something switched on inside him.

And then he smiled.

A real one.

Not a smirk. Not a twitch of the mouth. A full, open, stupidly soft smile. Or at least as soft as Judd Birch could smile.

“Working on a healthcare plan,” he said. “But they’re terrible at filling out paperwork.”

It was ridiculous. Absolutely unhinged. Probably the weirdest conversation she’d ever had.

And she grinned the whole drive home, Jessi was too busy on her phone to notice.

[transformers-spike]

"Cybertronians reacting to getting kissed", in which kissing is not something cybertronians do as an act of affection, so they're completely new to the human concept of kissing to express romantic love. Talk me one Knock Out who is so versed in wooing but doesn't know two shits about human kissing, and finding himself kissed for the first time. Or Starscream who's gonna freak out. Or Megatron who doesn't even know why you're smashing your intake against his

This is such a good question, anon, I've been rotating it in my head for a while now

Knock Out is well-versed in the drag and frag technique. He’s probably one of the youngest members on the Nemesis, still old as balls by our standards, but some rebellious youngin’ by theirs. He’s all about sliding in with a smooth pickup line and buttering you up until he reaches the “let’s get down to business” level, where he starts flashing his biolights in a “come hither and frag me” display. When it comes to human kissing, he’s… improvising to say the least. He’s seen humans make out in a wide variety of drive-through horror movies (many with questionable acting), and while he doesn’t “get” why we do it, he does his best to lean into the act and find what makes it so pleasurable by our standards. When you do kiss him for the first time, he’s already been hyping himself up for months, and whatever smoothness he tries to apply immediately disintegrates because oh fuck, your lips are so small and he has so much to give. He’s absolutely suffering despite the confident front he’s putting up. After fumbling the bag, he’ll ask you how he did. “Mid,” you’re tempted to say. But the hopefulness behind those smug optics stops you in your tracks. Starscream must have had a very confusing interface life even by Cybertronian standards. But there’s no way he didn’t get frisky back when he was Air Commander of Vos, even if the workload was immense. Although that’s probably the most action he got in his entire life, and even then the closest equivalent to “kissing” by their standards is merging EM fields and hoping for the best, a careful manipulation of wavelengths to fall into perfect sync. We humans do not possess a hyper-developed EM field, which is enraging for Starscream because what do you mean you smash intakes??? Mass-displaced or not, the only fluids he accepts in his intake are energon and transfluid, thank you very much. Kissing is a bad idea, and you’ve learned it the hard way, so good job! Now you have to deal with his drama queen ass acting like you just spit in his mouth. Worst thing is, he is interested in trying it again, but with his stipulations (aka watching him fail to figure out how to kiss you). He doesn’t even fail in a funny way, he’s so bad it’s concerning, you’re half tempted to contact Knock Out and blackmail him into sending you Starscream’s medical file.

Megatron was… surprisingly abstinent back on Cybertron. Yes, he’s been around for a long time. Yes, he used to be a gladiator at some point. And yes, it had its perks, but he was always more of a “sensitive spark” than a typical casanova. He had more important things to focus on at the time (mainly surviving the pits of Kaon and, before that, not offlining in a freak mining accident). Honestly, who knows what he did as a politician, whatever freakiness he had going on while trying to depose the government is none of our business and I am totally not typing this with a fusion cannon to my head.

He’s been through so much; fought countless beasts and fellow gladiators, avoided assassination attempts and blood-thirsty mutinies while leading a millennia-long war. Nothing can surprise him anymore. Yes, you’re a weird little freak for smashing intakes with him, but you need not fear for your safety. He’s… intrigued by your display of affection. You can mumble excuses all you want, but you’ve smashed intakes with him and it can’t be undone. Watch out for those sharp teeth and prepare a tetanus shot just in case. You have to deal with the consequences of your actions whether you like it or not, especially when he’s got a claw under your shirt and another down your pants. Your lips are bleeding and you pray it’s an accident, if he gets a taste for human blood you’re done for.

[jade-jini]

you remember perv!sakura with yn dancing to perfect night? i imagine since they always record their practices to monitor, she keeps replaying it over and over and gets caught by reader hehehe

Gonna be straightforward about this. Perv!kkura touches herself while watching those recordings. They get recorded with her phone so she’s the one who keeps them most of the time. She even has a playlist of your fancams and even some edits of you. She jerks off to that, to pictures of you two together, she even jerks off to voice messages you’ve sent.

Perv!kkura even sprays some of your perfume in her room and/or “borrows” some of your clothes to smell them when she’s having her private time, laying down on her bed and closing her eyes for a few seconds to picture what she has in mind with you as one hand holds the piece close to her nose and the other is going up and down her shaft.

Sakura thought she was gonna be home alone for a little extra time, but she didn’t know you were getting off early from your solo photoshoot. She was in her room during a hot summer day, only an oversized t-shirt that was up to half her torso and a pair of boxers on (glasses on too like on that video where she looks sleepy af). As she laid down on her bed chilling, she received a message from you. It was a video in front of a mirror with one of the outfits from the photoshoot; shorts with a top and an oversized open flannel shirt for a pool day concept. You. looked so. Hot. And what made it better was that you were completely wet, as if you just got out of the pool. Your hair was still dripping wet and the shirt was sticking to your body. You looked so fine that Sakura moaned just by looking at you, already having to fix her dick inside her boxers.

“My God…” she groaned, the contact of her hand as she looked at you feeling too good to stop. “Why would she send me this? Is she trying to tease me or something?”

Since your guys’ encounter in the practice room, you and Sakura haven’t had any private time at all. With a few group schedules and multiple solo ones with no days off together, the last time Sakura actually saw you in person was during your last dance practice. You and your pretty mouth were in her mind 24/7, making her hard over and over again. Sakura missed you so much. You guys are close friends so of course you text each other all day, but it wasn’t helping her that you’d constantly send her pics or videos of everything you were doing during your schedules. Those outfits that were specifically designed to highlight your perfect figure would make her fantasize about tearing them off you. Whenever you’d send a video showing her your outfits, you tended to softly talk about your day as one of your hands was traveling over your body, feeling yourself up unconsciously. But Sakura noticed it very well, ‘cause you look just so sexy doing this. She’d catch herself almost drooling at the view of you and the sound of your soft, sometimes raspy voice.

“I can’t wait to get home, unnie. I’m so wet I’m shaking” you said at the end of the video you sent her, followed by a little giggle. A groan came out of Sakura’s mouth, while a little wet spot was starting to appear on her black underwear.

“Fuck… I wanna feel how wet you are, baby…” she’d say while replaying the video, continuing to squeeze her dick over her boxers, already able to feel how warm and hard her member was “I miss you… fuck, where’s that video, I need to watch her moving like that again”

Sakura quickly went to the album she had of you, finding the last dance practice you guys had in which you guys practiced Smart. She particularly loved the chorus and how your hips moved. She’d imagine you moving like that on top of her, riding her cock and moving in circles, kissing her neck.

“Ugh shit…” she moaned, letting her hand slide inside her boxers, slowly rubbing her dick.

Then there was also this part of the dance, a part that you shared with Yunjin. The second verse; in which you both would get on your knees on the floor, hands touching it too.

“Lucky ass floor…” she said, making herself giggle (loser I love her). Sakura replayed that video and a couple others she had in that album, while her hand was busy inside her boxers. Her lip between her teeth, as she left soft sounds escape her. She also put her headphones on, wanting to enjoy the whole experience of your voice seducing her ears.

Bad idea, though.

If only she didn’t have her headphones on she would’ve heard when you got home.

“I’m homeee! Unnie, where are you?” You said out loud from the entrance of the dorm, hoping your friend heard you announcing yourself. But there was no response. You knew the rest of the girls wouldn’t come back soon, since they were either busy or spending time with friends; you knew Chaewon took Kazuha and was hanging out with Yena and Yujin, Eunchae was at Kyujin’s (you spent the day getting cute pictures from Haewon of the two kids doing little activities together), and Yunjin? Well, the only thing you knew was that she was gonna spend the day with one of the Aespa girlies.

“Probably involved in some gay activity with Minjeong…” you murmured and laughed to yourself as you made your way upstairs to find the older girl. “Unnieee, I’m home. Get out of your room c’mon, Fortnite can wait. Lets get ice cream and watch a movie pleaseee”

“Hmmm… fuck, like that…” you heard the familiar voice coming from behind a door. You couldn’t see her, but Sakura was getting so into the filthy scenarios she was creating in her head, so into it actually, that she decided to help herself with a toy she had bought some time ago; a fleshlight. The fresh sensation of the material was giving her a delightful feeling against the heat of the day and her own body temperature, making her mind fly.

“I miss you, y/n… please…” you heard her say from inside her room, a smile spreading on your face. You missed your Sakura unnie too, wanting to relax with her after an exhausting hot day.

“Awww unnie you miss me so much you’re talking to the voices in your head about it-“ you said, suddenly entering the bedroom unannounced while laughing at how cute Sakura sounded. This made the older girl squeak, dropping her phone and covering herself with her sheets as she secretly removed the toy off her dick. Your smile also dropped at the clearly agitated woman laying on her bed.

“Shit! y/n- what are y-you doing home so early?!” She stuttered, nervous that you caught her in such embarrassing situation.

“Unnie… what were you doing?” You asked, a mischievous grin on your face as you already suspected the answer to your question. I mean, kkura’s face was red, some sweat was already on her forehead, and her breathing was irregular. Plus the way her hands were hiding under the sheets, and sheets on during such a hot day?! She looked exactly like the last time you two were alone. And just as hot… (literally)

“I was just.. Um.. you know! Just checking the videos of our late dance practice. Yeah that! Mhm!” She tried explaining, doing her best to sound as casual as possible. And failing, of course. As you started walking towards her, she continued “I think there’s some stuff we can improve, like for example the synchronization and the- wait don’t!” but she got interrupted by you getting the covers off her.

“Mind explaining this?” You asked her, with an eyebrow raised as you crossed your arms in front of your chest.

“It’s.. not what it looks like?”

“Your dick is literally in your hand.”

“Ok but it’s not what it looks like Tf? Don’t judge.” She said, raising an eyebrow and trying to sound offended like you didn’t just catch her jerking off.

“Oh not judging, but you literally have a sex toy right next to your pervy ass.” You pointed at her fleshlight and then at her, doing your best not to laugh at the situation.

“It’s.. it’s for moral support!” Sakura argued back.

“You’re so stupid” you laughed at her silliness as you made your way to her bed “If you needed some attention, you could’ve told me, don’t you think?” You told her in a more gentle tone now, slowly caressing her thigh. Sakura whimpered at the contact of your cold hand.

“I didn’t know how long you were going to take in today’s schedule…” she said, a cute pout adorning her pretty lips “plus I wouldn’t have known how to ask you”

“I’m sure you would’ve figured out a way of letting me know of this” you pointed at her hard and pulsating member, who was begging for attention at this point “plus don’t you think I could help you better than that little toy you got?”

“I know you would…”

“Then?” You whispered, getting closer to her ear “ask for it.”

“Please, y/n” she moaned when your finger slightly touched her cock “please, I missed you. Please help me”

“There we go” you said with a smile “wasn’t so hard, right?” Your hand grabbed her member firmly but not too tight that it could hurt. “Talking about hard…”

“Agh.. y/n..” Sakura left out some loud, high-pitched moans, sounding as cute and hot as ever. You looked at her and let out a soft giggle, enjoying the reactions she had to your touch.

“I know, baby. I know” you cooed her, using now both hands to take care of the older girl. Her cock felt so hot against your palms, rock hard and her tip was red, some precum already emanating from it. “If you’d told me you were this needy, I would’ve hurry up and finished earlier you know”

“I-I’m sorry… didn’t wanna bother you, aghh~” she said in between moans. You looked at her, and the way she looked just turned you on even more if that was possible; Sakura had her eyes closed and her mouth slightly open as her hands gripped on the bedsheets tightly. Soft “like that~ just like that~” captivating your heard and motivating you to do everything she’d ask you for. “Faster please…” she begged, almost sobbing at her need for relief. You increased your speed, as fast as you could until you heard her sobbing again.

“Like that?” You asked her, knowing she wouldn’t even be able to pronounce a word. Sakura nodded repeatedly “yeah? You like that?”. The answer to your question came rather sooner, as Sakura let out a serious of loud groans, moans, and sobs while she came all over your hands, some of it falling on her own stomach. Her hips moved erratically, helping her finish reaching as much of climax as she could. Sakura came hard, and a lot. You could tell she really needed that. She really needed you.

“You really came that fast?” You asked her, amazed. The older girl’s face was also surprised, her body didn’t even warn her that she was that close.

“I.. i think so” but there was no doubt lmao. You moved a bit to look at her and saw Sakura’s flustered face turn even more red. You giggled at this, finding her cute even during this situation “aw man don’t laugh at me this is embarrassing…” she said awkwardly laughing as she tried to catch her breath.

“No it’s not!” You argued, still laughing though “I could tell you were all needy and desperate anyways” you teased her, and she just shrugged with a pout as she cleaned her tummy with some tissues. She seemed satisfied but for you it was not enough yet. It finished- she finished* too soon, you wanted more. “Hmm.. how about I help you clean yourself up hm?” You flirted, as you started licking the cum off her dick. Sakura quickly left out a whimper.

“Ahh! y/n, please.. I just came, I’m sensitive…” she begged, touching your hair.

“Yeah, that’s exactly why I’m doing this” you said, before putting as much of her dick in your mouth as you could. The loud moan that escaped Sakura made you moan on her cock. She sounded so good, of course you needed to overstimulate her. The vibrations of your throat when you moan as you sucked were driving her crazy, rolling her eyes and letting one hand rest on your head gripping on your hair tight, while the other was scratching her abs and your arm from time to time. Moans and whimpers coming out of Kkura, only the wet sounds you were making accompanying them.

“It tastes even better after you cum. I love the taste of it, unnie” you said, your tongue against her tip savoring what was left of her cum there. You made circles on the tip, making Sakura lose her mind.

“Holy shit… so good..” she whispered against her knuckles, which she was biting to try and not lose her mind. Her voice was rather raspy now, but still high, and her mind so gone she didn’t know how she was able to pronounce those words. Suddenly, the tease on her tip was unbearable, so she grabbed your hair with both hands and pulled, catching her attention “put it in your mouth, baby. The whole thing. Let me fuck your throat.” She asked, her eyes were watery and you could hear the tone being a perfect mix between ordering and begging. So you did as she said so, again putting every inch that you could fit in your mouth, looking up so she could see those puppy eyes that drive her crazy. As she looked into them, a deep groan emanated from her throat, with a frown and a lip in between her teeth.

Sakura caressed your hair softly before she gripped on it and started to move her hips not too fast so you could get used to her size first. Your throat felt so good. You were right, no toy could ever compare to the real thing; to you. She slowly started increasing her speed, getting more and more aroused with the noises your throat was making as she got in and out of you, alongside with your moans. You were grabbing her thighs, letting her do as she pleased with your mouth, her taste driving you insane. You loved it, maybe a little too much. “God.. it’s so good, your mouth feels so good…” she said, moans coming out of her every time her tip hit deep down your throat. “You take it so well… makes me wanna go faster. Can I? ” she asked, and you almost needed it as much as she did. Your lips closed around her dick, her moves stopping from a moment before your head went up and down as an answer. God. You looked so sexy, so dirty just for her in that moment “good girl, you’re such a good girl…” she said, as she picked up a faster pace, grabbing your hair on a ponytail in her hands as she fucked your mouth. Deep. Rough.

You were now on your knees on the floor, looking up to Sakura as her knees became a trembling mess. However, she managed to stay very well on her feet, motivated by the heavenly sensation you were causing her. She’d give you a few seconds to breathe before putting her whole length back into your mouth, this time lasting longer than before.

“Hmm wanna come~ really wanna come in your pretty mouth, baby” she moaned, her fast thrust telling you she desperately needed to reach her climax yet again. So you decided to add your hands again, masturbating her shaft and doing circles on her tip whenever you could, knowing just how much she liked that. Sakura slowed down a bit so you could do this more comfortably, giving you more control now “Oh fuuuck… just like that, please…” she said in a long moan, letting you take care of her.

“Let’s make you come real good again, ok?” You said in between kisses you were leaving all over her member before you went back to sucking and licking her tip as good as possible. Sakura’s knees finally gave in and made her fall sat on the edge of the bed. You were doing such a good job, drool going down her length. The room was being filled with such dirty noises, noises that just turned both of you on more and more.

“Y/n…” the older girl started “gonna come.. I’m gonna come…” she warned you, just in time for her orgasm to hit her, almost harder than the first one. Her cum going down your throat, making you moan as you enjoyed swallowing every drop of it. You could see tears going down Sakura’s face ‘cause of how good and overwhelming everything felt. “Good.. so good.. so good…” she’d say in between sobs, and you were enjoying making her cry a bit too much maybe.

Once you finished really cleaning her cum off her member, you got on your feet to look at her. Sakura was lying down on her bed, trying her best to catch her breath. “You ok there?” You asked, she was so tired she could barely open her eyes.

“… I feel lightheaded.” She said before slowly passing out. You just giggled and rolled your eyes, making sure to put her boxers back on and fix her legs properly on the bed “thank you, y/n. You’re always so good to me” she told you in between a big yawn, a soft voice barely able to get out. You smiled, looking at the sleepy girl dearly.

“Goodnight, unnie.”

[ckret2]

Chapter 53 of human Bill Cipher not properly appreciating the fact that Mabel is his only friend on Earth:

Mabel has read a book about Bill's home dimension and is prepared to interrogate him all about where he comes from.

Bill is willing to do anything to avoid being interrogated.

(Featuring SEVEN illustrations, provided by 🌈 MABEL 💖)

####

Flatworld, from what Mabel had read, was probably literally the worst place to ever exist. 

The book was a hundred pages of an old-fashioned formal-sounding super boring guy rambling on about the most egregiously evil society Mabel had ever had the horror of reading about.

Society consisted of a bunch of geometric shapes—which in concept sounded half nerdy and half adorable—but they'd made a brutally oppressive government organized by quantity of sides, with infinite-sided circles at the top and three-sided triangles at the bottom, and one-sided lines—women—oppressed into near silence. Career options, educational opportunities, who you could love, were all determined by your sides. Irregular shapes—quadrilaterals that weren't squares, triangles that weren't equilateral, anyone with a side too long or too short—were presumed from birth to be criminally insane. Each generation had sons with one more side than their father—and they had to, because having higher-ranked sons was the only way families could climb out of poverty. When babies were born with too few or irregular sides, poor families abandoned them—or worse—and rich families put them through oft-fatal bone-snapping surgeries to regularize or increase their sides. Knowledge of the third dimension was considered heretical, and anybody claiming it was real was locked in an insane asylum.

There was a lot of mathy stuff in the book about a square meeting a magical sphere and going on educational adventures to the higher and lower dimensions; but most of it passed by her in a blur. When she'd finished reading last night, Mabel had lay in bed for an hour, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about dead baby shapes and fighting the urge to wake Bill up just so she could hug him; until she'd finally drifted off and woken up in her own bed.

At least, thank goodness, the bit about banning colors so lower shapes couldn't contour themselves to look like higher shapes was false. But she was sure that at least part of the story was true. And it had happened to somebody she knew. It was a lot to process.

So she processed it the way she usually did the stories that weighed on her: by creating a self-insert and pulling out her art supplies.

####

"You're drawing fan art of Flatworld?" Bill asked warily.

"I wouldn't call it fan art. I'd say it's more of a... thoughtful artistic critique. I don't think I'm a 'fan' of the second dimension," Mabel said. "No offense."

"Sure."

Mabel had designed a shapesona of herself: a pink heart with a rainbow-colored outline, a big sparkly eye, and skinny black stick limbs like Bill's. If, as Bill had said, colors weren't illegal, she didn't see any reason she couldn't be rainbow. The heart shape was maybe unconventional, but Bill hadn't said she couldn't be a heart yet, so she was sticking with it for now.

She'd honestly expected Bill to come over and interrogate her about her creation long before now. Usually, when she was doing art and he was unoccupied, he was hovering right by her, examining her work and dropping hints—some more subtle than others—that she should draw him next. But she hadn't immediately noticed when he'd silently drifted into the room, and she wasn't sure how long he'd been there before speaking up. He was still leaning on the wall, arms crossed, watching askance from halfway across the living room as Mabel worked with her crayons, as if she were playing with a chemistry set and he was trying to figure out if she was building a bomb.

"Is Flatworld really about your world?" Mabel asked. "Did you tell Edward Bishop Bishop all that stuff? With the circles and all the laws about shapes and stuff?"

Bill mulled over the question, staring into space. Mabel had never seen his face look so inexpressive before—at least, not since his first night as a captive, after he'd gotten all the screaming out and had looked too exhausted to feel. "We talked," he conceded. "I'm surprised you got your hands on it. I suppose Stanford brought it up."

Something in the back of her mind pricked up defensively—what was that supposed to mean, he was surprised she got her hands on it?—but she pushed it back down. "Yeah, he told me and Dipper about it when you guys got home yesterday," Mabel said. "But you brought it up to me first!"

"No I didn't. When?"

"A few weeks ago? You mentioned Edward Bishop Bishop."

"I don't remember that," Bill muttered. "I probably didn't think you'd make sense of it."

"Hey!"

"You didn't make sense of it! Ford had to tell you about it."

"Yeah, but—mean!" She shoved aside her drawing and started on another one, grumbling, "I could've made sense of it if I'd looked it up."

What was up with Bill today? He wasn't usually this much of a jerk. To her. Lately. Plus, she thought they'd really had a moment yesterday! But Bill had had a rough couple days. Maybe he was just tired and cranky. 

A wiser person might just leave well enough alone. But a wiser person wasn't exploding in their brain with curiosity about just how bad Bill's life had really been. There was something itching at the back of her head, had been itching since she'd woken up—something about Bill, something important, she was sure of it—but she couldn't quite put together what it was. She just needed to talk to Bill long enough to figure it out.

"So..." She glanced up from filling in a shape yellow, "were lines really executed if they didn't make noises all the time so everyone always knew where they were and they couldn't sneak up and stab anyone?"

Bill scoffed, rolling his eyes, as if the very idea was stupid. "It wasn't that extreme. Making a peace cry is like a human saying 'coming through' when they're trying to squeeze past somebody. Lines are just taught to do it in public because it's easier not to see a line, that's all."

"If they didn't, were they executed...?"

"No. They were just rude."

That was a relief. Mabel had been worried for her fellow ladies. She was plenty noisy, but she didn't think she could remember to make constant sound any time she was around other people. She turned back to coloring her newest drawing, but watched Bill out of the corner of her eye. "Is it true that rich people killed almost all of their babies by giving them surgery to break their sides?"

The corner of Bill's mouth curled in a sneer. "Do I look like a pediatric surgeon?"

"Um." Not a welcome question. She tried to backtrack to something softer. "So, in the second dimension, the outside of your body is just your outline and your guts are everything inside the outline, right?"

He gave her a wary look. "Yeah."

"So your bow tie is basically in your stomach."

Bill sucked in a deep breath; but quickly caved in to the need to be the most correct person in the room. "More like around my esophagus, but. Sure."

"So, where did you wear it when you were back in the second dimension? Was it on your side? Did you have to wear two so people could see them from both sides—"

"I didn't need a bow tie then."

Mabel stared at him. "What do you mean, you didn't 'need' it? What do you need it for now?"

Bill ignored the question. "You know, I didn't think Flatworld was an interesting enough book to deserve this much attention! Especially not from you. You like fun stories." It felt oddly like he was criticizing her for having read it.

"Well—yeah, but it's about your home! That makes it fun!"

Bill raised his brows.

"Right? Doesn't it?"

"Kid." Bill laughed condescendingly. "Don't give me that. You read an entire book. In the summer. About math. With a downer ending where the narrator goes insane and gets locked up. That's some people's idea of a fun time, but I know it's not yours."

Maybe "fun" was the wrong word—but it was still important. She was glad she'd read it. She'd cared about it. She'd cared enough to know Bill was describing it wrong. "That's not what happened. The square got locked up because he kept telling everybody the third dimension's real."

"Like I said! He went insane!"

"But he's not insane. Everyone says he is, but he's right about the third dimension! It's everyone else who's stupid!"

"So what," Bill said. "The things he knows mean he'll never be able to see the world the way other shapes do, and no matter what he does he'll never be happy with his home. If that's not insanity, what is?"

Last year, she'd heard Bill agree when Gideon called him insane. She'd always wondered. "Is that why you're insane?"

Bill shot Mabel a furious look. That was the wrong thing to say. "Shooting Star—"

(Oh no, she thought, he's using my full name.)

"—what's with the third degree." Bill crossed the room to lean on the other side of the table. He gave her the guarded glare of a guilty suspect facing down a cop in an interrogation room—and trying to figure out whether he could kill the cop before he was stopped. "What do you think you're trying to dig up?"

"I'm not trying to 'dig up' anything," Mabel said. "I just want to learn more about you!"

"Oh yeah, I'm sure you do! Who doesn't wanna know all about me! And right after I trusted you yesterday! Do you think you're the first person to start digging into my history? 'Hey, does anyone know what made Bill Cipher so crazy'?" Bill laughed bitterly. " You're not even the first Pines to try it. Not even the second."

"That's not what I'm trying to do!" said Mabel, right before it dawned on her that that was exactly what she was trying to do.

"Right. I'm sure whatever you learn will make a nice two-page spread in Journal 5. Another secret you and Fordsy can add to your Mysteries, huh? Think he'll draw the dead babies?"

She thought back to Portland—to asking Ford what had made Bill so awful. I think if anyone’s ever had a chance of finding out what made him like he is, it might be you. Mabel shook her head. No. She didn't want to be that. "I'm not Grunkle Ford's spy, I'm your friend. I just—I just want to understand you—"

"Yeah, and the 'friends' who understand you are the most dangerous kind." Bill laughed harshly. "Your uncle and brother couldn't figure me out! And Sixer's been trying for years! So what makes you think YOU can?"

He was calling her stupid. He'd been calling her stupid all day. That was why he was so surprised she'd read the book.

"You—shut up!" She wadded up her latest drawing and flung it in Bill's face. (He snatched out of midair.) "All I did was read a book I thought was important to you, you jerk! I thought you'd like that!"

She hadn't meant for that waver to enter her voice. But she was exhausted from too little sleep and worrying about dead baby shapes and worrying about Bill's fear of death and worrying about what Ford had said about not giving Bill a second chance, and now Bill was being a jerk, and maybe he was just exhausted and upset too, but he was treating her like she was stupid—and there was that pathetic little waver.

But it made Bill pause in his onslaught; for a moment, he averted his gaze. Still, he said, "Maybe if you'd thought to ask—"

"You were asleep! I was being nice! And letting you sleep! In my bed!"

"But—"

"Just go away!" She pointed at the doorway.

Bill's face hardened again. "Fine!" He flung his hands in the air and stomped from the room. "Who wants to hang out with you when you're in such a bad mood, anyway."

Mabel glared at her stupid drawings so she didn't have to watch Bill's stupid back as he left.

Why had she bothered?

When Bill was out of sight, she dropped back onto her chair, pulled her sweater over her face, crossed her arms on the table, and buried her head in them.

####

Bill didn't think to smooth out the paper Mabel had flung at him until he was out of the room.

On one side she'd drawn Bill—properly triangular—with an expression that he thought was supposed to be fear and on the other side several angry-looking shapes, pentagons and hexagons, colored gray and black, being led by a pale figure shaped like a human skull and wielding a scythe; and between them, a bright pink heart, standing in front of Bill protectively, hands on its "hips," glaring down the would-be assailants.

The corners of Bill's mouth sagged down.

####

The bell rang and the shapes began filing out of class, muttering to each other about how they thought they'd done on the test. As the triangle cheerfully left the room, the teacher caught him by the arm again to pull him over. "Just a minute," she said. "I want a word with you."

Oh, he bet she did. Breezily, he said, "Sure thing! What is it?"

"Who was the first triangular president?"

"Wh— Th—" He spluttered indignantly. "There's been like—seven of them."

"Nine. And I'm only asking about the first one."

"How should I know!"

"You knew an hour ago."

He sputtered again. "That was— That was a multiple choice test! And it was an hour closer to when I'd studied! And I can focus better in the classroom! You can't expect me to remember anything in the hallway. You're using intimidation tactics. How could anyone focus under these conditions—"

"I don't know what you're doing," the teacher said, "or how you're doing it. Maybe I never will. But..." She sighed, and the anger seemed to leak out of her, and that only made him more nervous. "But whatever you're doing—you won't be able to do it forever. What will you do when you're out in the real world and you didn't learn anything in school?"

Her pity was worse than being hated had been. At least when he was hated, he knew she only looked down on him because she had something against him. What did he do with pity? With concerned warnings about the "real world"? He'd never heard anybody use the phrase "the real world" as anything but a threat. He hoped he was never out in the real world.

"Who cares! I'll never need any of this!" He should have shut up there. He didn't: "You're just jealous that me and my family make a million times more lying to everyone than you'll ever get trying to teach them the truth!"

His teacher gasped in shock; but before she could say anything, he was halfway down the hall with no intention of slowing down.

The next day, he stayed home, and his mom visited the principal. The day after that, he had a new teacher.

####

He was stupid. He knew that. He didn't know when he'd gotten stupid—if it was because he'd started touring so much and missing classes, or if he'd always been dumb and just didn't notice it before he registered just how often he was using his all-seeing eye to pick up answers that other kids couldn't see. It had crept up on him. But there it was. He was stupid, and he was too stupid to figure out what to do about it.

There was a big difference between being able to see everything, and actually knowing anything. And he might be all-seeing, but an idiot like him would never be all-knowing.

####

A trillion years later, he still didn't remember the name of the first triangular president. And look how far he'd gotten without it.

Lunch was toast and peanut butter. The toaster was the only source of heat he could use without having to ask his captors for access; and peanut butter and bread were the most nutritious foods he could reach without asking his captors to open a cabinet or fridge. He was sick of toast and peanut butter.

He wasn't about to ask Mabel to help him get lunch.

Well. He'd succeeded. He'd known just the right thing to say to get Mabel to lay off and drop the topic. Did he feel accomplished?

He stared out the window as he ate—there were hazy gray clouds on the horizon, beyond the trees, slowly inching closer—and he tried not to look at the picture Mabel had flung at him.

####

Mabel felt dumb about being upset that Bill thought she was dumb.

Because of course he did. Sure, he liked her art and he liked dance music and games without rules; sure, he was a willing student when it came to stuff like making friendship bracelets or artistically mixing sprinkles; sure, he was a weirdo fun guy; but he was also a Smarty McSmartypants, just like Dipper or Ford. And Mabel was the Girl Dipper who brought home C's. And even a weirdo fun Smarty wouldn't want to hang out for long with someone who couldn't keep up with nerd talk. He probably just... put up with her for as long as he could stand pretending he took her seriously, but he'd finally lost his patience...

And shown his true, jerky colors again.

Maybe Ford and Dipper were right about him; maybe he couldn't really change.

Except... there was something he'd said. And right after I trusted you yesterday. When he'd cried in front of her. When he'd told her about his fear of death.

He was being a jerk because he thought she'd betrayed him. But by reading a book?! Why couldn't he ever just explain himself? Did he think whatever was bothering him was obvious, and she was stupid for not figuring it out?

Something she almost but didn't quite remember thudded like a drum inside her brain. Dum-dum-dum. Dum-dum-dome.

From the entryway, Bill called, "Hey, star girl. I—"

He stopped in the doorway. Mabel had taped 28 pieces of paper together, drawn on a door knob, written "DOOR" at the top, and taped it across the doorway into the living room. Irritably, Bill said, "It doesn't work like that. This is obviously paper."

"Bill," Mabel grumbled. "Go away."

"No. I'm gonna say something to you."

He didn't phrase that like he was giving her a choice in the matter; but all the same, she said, "I don't wanna hear it."

"You know that horror story about a bride with a velvet ribbon tied around her neck, and her head falls off and rolls down the stairs when her husband unties it?"

She did. She and Dipper had read a book of scary stories to each other on Halloween a few years ago while waiting for it to be late enough to go trick-or-treating. In spite of herself, he'd piqued her curiosity. She reluctantly turned to look at him. "Yeah? So?"

Bill was leaning in the doorway, head tilted against the doorframe so he could see Mabel around the paper door curtain. "That's why I wear a bow tie."

Mabel blinked. "Wait—if you didn't, your head would fall off? What part of you is your head? How did it come off? Were you decapitated? Did you get decapitated for knowing about the third dimension—?"

"It doesn't keep my head on; it keeps my skin on."

Mabel's nose wrinkled. "Gross! How?"

"Remember how you said my outline is my skin and all my organs are inside the outline," Bill said. "That didn't change when we left the second dimension! We had to get exoskeletons on our top and bottom sides so solids like you can't stick you fingers in our guts. My bow tie keeps it tied in place."

"Whoa." So that was why they hadn't seen Bill's organs before. "Do you ever take it off?"

"Mostly when I'm eating!" He knocked on the doorframe. "So can I come in now?"

Of course. He'd been using information to buy his way back into her good graces. (No—that was what somebody who didn't think Bill deserved a second chance would think. He was making up for earlier by answering one of her questions about him.)

She took a deep breath, turned to face Bill, and said, "You didn't talk to me like a friend earlier."

"I—" Bill grimaced, looked at the ceiling for help, and conceded, "I mean—It's how I talk to my friends, but all right, I know you're not used to that—"

"Nobody should be used to that!" Mabel said. "What would Love Bunny say?"

"Wh—?! I— Th— You—" His voice cracked as it jumped higher, "What do I care what a cartoon rabbit thinks about—"

"What. Would. She. Say."

Bill's face screwed up in agony. He crossed his arms. "Ugh."

"Biiill?"

Eyes squeezed shut, Bill said, "She'd say my breath smells like I've been eating mean beans."

"Aaand?"

"I'm not going to say it. I won't say it."

"And you need to eat your nice rice!"

Bill let out a long, slow sigh.

"Say it!"

"This is my penance," Bill muttered toward his feet. "This is my penance. This is fair." He took a breath. "And... I need to eat my nice rice."

Mabel nodded. He'd confessed his sins.

"I think we're out of nice rice," Bill said, "but I've had the peanut butter of kindness and the toast of remorse. Good enough?"

She considered it. "Yeah. You can come in."

Bill batted aside the paper door curtain and ducked into the room. 

He sat across the table from Mabel and set down the paper she'd chucked at him amongst her others. Mabel glanced at the drawing, embarrassed of it now; but Bill didn't say anything about it.

He just propped his cheek against his hand and started looking over her other art.

Mabel sat there with her hands under her legs, watching his spotlight eyes rove over the table, feeling like she was waiting for a teacher to grade a poster she'd made for class. He saw a stop sign red octagon in sunglasses that was labeled "Bill's parole officer" and snorted. She wasn't sure if it was an amused snort or a derogatory snort. His gaze stopped on her attempt to figure out how Flatworlder anatomy worked, and didn't move farther. She'd probably gotten everything wrong, hadn't she?

She couldn't stand waiting for him to pass judgment on her art. "You think they look dumb, don't you."

Bill took a moment to reply. He didn't look up from her drawings. "I don't think you're dumb, Shooting Star."

"You think I'm dumber than Dipper and Grunkle Ford."

Bill winced. "I don't." At her dubious look, Bill amended, "Only Stanford! And that barely counts, all humans are dumber than Stanford. It doesn't mean I think you're dumb-dumb"

"Could've fooled me," Mabel muttered.

"You bet! I'm good at fooling people. All I have to do is say things I don't mean that make people feel the way I want." His voice was flat and matter-of-fact. "I wanted you to feel like the conversation wasn't worth it. That's all."

She stared at him. "By letting me know you think I'm stupid?!" She chucked a crayon at his face. "You could have just told me you didn't want to talk about Flatworld!" Her voice was getting that stupid waver again. "If I'd known, I would have dropped it! I didn't want to upset you!"

"I wasn't upset, it's just a stupid thing to complain about! It's just a dumb book! It'd—it'd take a real loser to be bothered by talking about a dumb book! I'm not..." He sighed harshly. "I know you weren't trying to get on my nerves, kid. It'd mess up your sticker chart." (Mabel hadn't even realized he knew about her sticker chart.) Almost inaudibly, he added, "M'sorry."

She'd never heard him apologize before.

She let out a slow breath. "Biiill. I don't think you're a loser."

He muttered something she couldn't make out as he flipped his hood on and pulled it down over his burning face. "Forget it. Move on. It's in the past!"

"If you're so embarrassed—"

"Not embarrassed!"

She chucked another crayon at his chest. "Then why are you telling me this now?"

Bill shut his eyes; took a deep breath; and, with a look of solemn dignity, and no small amount of pain, he said, "Because. Teddy Tender says. Our friends can't help us feel better if we don't tell them why we feel bad." He almost, almost managed to say it without sounding sarcastic.

Mabel burst out laughing. Bill pulled his hood lower.

Bill didn't even like Teddy Tender—he thought he was the stick in the mud of the Color Critters—and he certainly wasn't actually trying to follow Teddy's friendship lessons. He was just... saying something he didn't mean to make Mabel feel the way he wanted. And he wanted her to feel better.

No matter what anyone else said, he could change. And he was changing.

"Apology accepted," Mabel said. "Gold star!" She peeled one off a nearby sticker sheet and held it out.

Bill eyed it, like a man so hungry he was too nauseous to eat eyeing a pizza; and then snatched it from her and stuck it in the middle of his hoodie.

Mabel said, "And... I guess I'm sorry for getting all diggy about your home world." Even if she hadn't known it was bothering him, she probably should've guessed, shouldn't she? With how crabby he'd gotten. "I just got all excited and curious and... kinda worried about you after reading that book?" She sighed. "I understand if you don't wanna talk about it. You probably hated your dimension."

"What? He lurched forward with the vehemence of his denial—"Of course I don't hate my dimension!" Mabel leaned away at the sudden rage that had flared up in his eyes; but it died just as quickly and Bill immediately reeled himself back in, sitting back, crossing his arms: "I mean, come on, kid, use your head: you read a book about a culture. We're talking about an entire dimension. Would you hold a grudge against Jupiter if an ant bit you on Earth?"

Even as casually as he played it off, Mabel was sure he hadn't meant anything as calm and measured as claiming it was technically irrational to hate an entire dimension. He meant—emphatically, with his whole heart behind it—that he didn't hate his home dimension, at all.

Then why didn't he want to talk about it? (Then why had he destroyed it? Or was not hating it just another fiction he'd made up because he'd prefer that reality? Or was the destruction itself a lie? He hadn't mentioned it once since they'd started talking about Flatworld. Or did he think she didn't know about that and didn't want her to know? Or...)

Something had been churning in her subconscious since she woke up, and now—watching Bill ball up around himself as he squirmed around the things he didn't want to say—it finally dawned on her. Two words. Another piece of the Axolotl's poem. She tried to hold the words in her head until she could write them down, repeating them over and over—Misses home. Misses home.

Quietly, she asked, "Then... don't you want to remember it?"

His face spasmed, like it was nearly cracking in two—and then smoothed out. His face was blank. He didn't answer for a moment. "The last time I told a human more than two sentences about where I'm from... he gave me the universe's most depressing geometry textbook."

Oh. Maybe Bill was following Teddy Tender's friendship advice. "That's because you were talking to a boring old-timey math teacher, duh."

He laughed wryly. "You may have a point!"

If Bill assumed anybody prying into his history was either looking for the reason something was wrong with him, or publishing a whole book about the super bad parts... No wonder he hadn't wanted to talk to her. "So you didn't dislike Flatworld? You just dislike the book?"

Bill grimaced. "Did you read Eddie's biography?"

"No?"

####

As soon as he'd buckled himself into his seat for the drive to Northwest Manor, Dipper read the summary on the back cover of Flatworld, and then the paragraph-long author biography underneath it:

Edward B. Bishop, born in 1838 in England, was an accomplished mathematician, writer, theologian, and closet occultist, as well as a professor at the esteemed University of Fancyton. He published twelve books, the last of which was Flatworld in 1884. After sentencing his square protagonist to a two-dimensional asylum for preaching of the existence of the third dimension, he himself succumbed to an ironically similar fate: three months after publication, he was committed to an asylum for insisting that two-dimensional alien invaders intended to conquer the Earth and were persecuting him for revealing their existence, a delusion he maintained until his death from sleep deprivation in 1886. His most enduring legacy is inventing the margarita glass, which he claimed came to him in a dream. 

Dipper hissed between his teeth. "Ouch."

####

"Never mind, don't worry about it," Bill said. "But no. I didn't like the book."

"You poor thing! All this time you've been homesick for the second dimension, but the only things humans talk about is the bad stuff!"

"Don't call me that."

"Do you want to talk about the non-depressy stuff instead? Like..." Mabel wracked her brain for something nice she'd read in the book. She winced. "Uh... I'm sure there's something. You could choose the topic?"

Bill didn't look directly at her. He just looked over all her drawings again. "Tell me why you want to know so badly."

It was basically the same question he'd asked earlier—what's with the third degree—but his tone was different. Mabel swallowed hard and repeated, "Because... I'm your friend. It's crazy that we've been friends for like a month and I barely know a-ny-thing about who you are or how you grew up! By now, I'd usually know about a friend's family, favorite subject, favorite animal, opinion on glitter, and biggest life dream! Plus all the stuff humans have in common—like, 'do you breathe?'"

This time, Bill didn't argue with her answer. (He could have called her a liar. A month ago, she had just been trying to find out what was wrong with him. But this version of the truth she'd made up was better.) "You already know I'm pro-glitter in all contexts and my life's work is to throw an eternal party. What else really matters?"

"Those are the two most important questions," Mabel said seriously. Tentatively, she asked, "Did you have glitter in the second dimension?" He'd already reassured her that they'd had color, but it was hard to imagine glitter in such a bleak world.

"Sure."

Mabel heaved a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank goodness."

She looked around at the morning's art production, pulled over the first drawing she'd done of her shapesona, and grabbed a bottle of glue to draw a thin line around the heart.

Bill watched as Mabel carefully sprinkled several separate colors of glitter on the line of glue, like a master chef adding a precise amount of spice to a gourmet recipe, to create a glitter rainbow gradient; and then he slowly sat up and leaned toward the table again. "So, who's this freak?"

Mabel gave him an exasperated look. She decided he'd meant "freak" neutrally; but she'd clearly labeled the heart "ME IN FLATWORLD," she thought it was pretty obvious who this freak was.

But Bill cheerfully went on, "He's the most hideously disfigured shape I've ever seen."

"Hey!"

"I'm not joking, it hurts to look at this guy. At least he's symmetrical, but woof."

"She's not a guy! She's supposed to be me in Flatworld," Mabel insisted. "She's a powerful lady and I think she's beautiful." She paused. "Can a heart be a girl?" Lines looked boring, but Flatworld said that girls were all lines and all other shapes were boys. (Or were they? When they'd talked at the mall, Bill had been very clear that he considered himself a triangle instead of male or female, which scuttled the "all polygons are male" concept. Maybe Edward Bishop Bishop had made that part up?)

"She can be anything she wants," Bill said firmly. "I don't see any gender cops around here, do you?"

Good point. "And when there's no cops around, anything's legal."

Bill laughed. "Hey, I like that."

"Grunkle Stan says it!"

"Wise man." Bill leaned forward further across the table and tapped a finger on the deep cleft at the top of the heart. "Personally, I'm more worried about that agonizing-looking birth defect. I'm surprised she survived past infancy!"

Mabel glared at him, but she supposed she couldn't argue. A heart was a pretty irregular shape. And according to Flatworld, almost all irregular shapes were executed in childhood or else imprisoned in adulthood, since they thought irregular shapes would grow up to be depraved, imbecilic criminals—

"Wait," Mabel said. "Wait. Last year, when I called you an isosceles freak—"

Bill cut in, "It was 'monster,' but go on!"

"Was that, like..." Mabel's voice dropped to a whisper, "a slur on Flatworld?"

Bill fought to keep his face straight as he decided how to respond. He went for the funniest answer. "Yes."

Mabel clapped her hands over her mouth and squeaked, "Nooo!"

"It's actually pretty impressive a human managed to come up with it!"

"I'M SORRYYY, augh I didn't know!"

Over her anguished whines, Bill went on, "It's just a good thing you didn't say 'scalene'! I would've had to wash your mouth out with drain cleaner!"

Mabel had pulled the collar of her sweater over her face. From within Sweater Town, she asked, "Was that the first thing I ever said to you?"

Bill choked back a laugh. "Yeah, it was."

She squealed in embarrassment and slid under the table.

"Heck of a first impression, star girl!"

"i'm sorryyy."

Bill reached under the table to pat the top of her head. "Ahhh, it was funny. Get up here." 

As she climbed back into her seat, Bill added, "I'm getting back at you now, I'm not done making fun of your medical miracle yet. You know what she'd look like as a human? A headless, neckless body with an eyeball shoved six inches down her esophagus." He paused thoughtfully. "Actually... that sounds kinda cute."

"Eww, Bill."

"It is, it's cute. Like a clumsy puppy with a neurological disorder! I guess that's how the hideous Miss Heart here must look to humans!"

Mabel looked over her art again, wondering if she should change her shapesona, considering Bill's reaction to it. 

So, maybe she was creating a freak. She didn't see any shape cops around here. She kept drawing. "I'd be fine," she said. "You like weird freaks! You'd keep me safe."

A stricken look crossed his face. He was momentarily silent as he watched Mabel start another picture. And then, as though he were only considering it for the first time, he said, "Yeah. I guess I would."

His gaze drifted to the wrinkled picture of Mabel's shapesona standing protectively in front of Bill. "Freaks can't afford to tear each other down."

####

(THIS is the chapter that's been giving me hell the last few weeks. Months. Last few months. I'm so glad to finally have it out, and I hope y'all enjoyed!! This chapter probably brings up a lot more questions than it actually answers—and completely different questions based on whether or not you've read Flatland lol—so I can't wait to hear what y'all think.)

[dduane]

Process for the new DEEP WIZARDRY International Edition cover

(rolls up sleeves) Right. Writing work (and recurring health issues) have repeatedly pushed these pieces of work to one side for the last year and a half. Time to take a brief break from ongoing work in other universes to rectify that.

Here's the template that I'm building on: the international edition cover for So You Want To Be A Wizard. (Available only outside North America, if you're wondering what makes it international. These paperbacks use the New Millennium Edition texts—except for the international edition of Games Wizards Play [when it comes out later this year], which was written to fit into the NME timeline to begin with, and will go into its international editions with that text.)

The cover concept's straightforward. Relatively dark, desaturated backgrounds: one glowy (or somewhat glowy) thing in the foreground, in a color that pops, or in lighting that makes it stand out.

For Deep Wizardry, things get slightly complicated by the fact that so much business happens underwater. But there are some things we can work with there. A scene in which two pivotal characters square off seems like a fair bet.

So: background first. Underwater lighting...

The sea floor: sand.

Sunlight from above the water.

But naturally that's not how the bottom would look, because there are ripples on the surface...

And naturally the sea bottom isn't going to be featureless, so we need some weeds and rocks.

The distribution's not ideal on these, but that comes under "fine tuning." That can happen over the weekend.

Now for the main attractions. Nita...

...and Ed. (ETA: There are some scale issues here. Properly speaking, Ed'rashtekaresket is significantly bigger, in comparison with Nita, than he's being framed in this shot. But Nita had to be big enough to actually show on the cover... So some liberties inevitably get taken.)

Now, while this is all promising enough so far, there's a bit of a problem. Nita's not terribly visible at this point. So, time to engage in some visual jiggerypokery that will both help with that problem and do something to hint at the connection between these two.

IIRC, Nita was wearing a wizardly forcefield in this scene to provide her with air and other necessities. So let's exploit that.

In the render, I can apply to her figure what in Daz Studio parlance is called a "geoshell": a kind of skintight digital overskin to which special effects can be applied: such as light emission. (And Nita's hair will get one too.) Since everything else in the scene is cool-colored, this light is going to need to be warmer, in (at the very least) a golden range. (Or rosy. May be playing with that for a bit.)

...But obviously we can't leave her looking like that. So what I get to do now is lose the rest of the scene and render Nita separately, in the same position but with different, less blued-out lighting...

...then add her figure back into the scene, over the geoshelled version (which can be clone-brushed out later).

...So when we slot that imagery into the paperback cover template, after some tweaking, this is what we get.

...Still some things to correct or refine here. (Such as the main body of back cover text, as I haven't written the new copy yet. And the quotes may want tweaking: the NYTimes review [which the WaPo picked up] had some lines that might work better.) Colors, composition, etc etc, can all use some final touches. But I think we're most of the way there.

With any kind of luck, this edition will be available online in paperback and ebook formats for the non-North American audience this time next week. (I'm still considering whether I want to offer hardcovers on these as well.)

(sigh) Now I want some tea. And then, tomorrow maybe, on to the int'l edition of High Wizardry...

ETA 2: off @softness-and-shattering's question:

If I may ask, is it not your publishers job to do this work? Is this a continuation of the thing where authors now seem to be expected to do their own marketing too, or are you doing the new millenium editions 'on your own' or similar?

I'm doing them on my own. While there are numerous foreign-language editions of the original YW books, the only publisher to use the NME texts so far (for books 1-3) has been Lumen éditions in France, and I'm not clear whether those editions are still in print.

Whatever their status, that still leaves me with a lot of countries where I can publish. And if that job's going to get done—lacking other publishers' interest, which my agents would handle—It falls to me to take the work forward. Such are the wonders of our age that I no longer have to wait for a publisher to turn up. And should something suddenly happen for publishers to get interested (like a TV series or whatever) then i can easily withdraw my own editions and let my agents do deals with them.

Meanwhile, why (as we say) leave money on the table? There are other English-speaking countries on the planet where the YW books can be marketed (and more countries still where—when there's cash to spare to hire the necessary creative talent—translations might not do too badly). So I might as well get on with it! I've got groceries to buy and bills to pay like everybody else... :)

(And just pausing here to point at the page pinned to the top of my feed. If you want to help with those groceries, there's a good place to start: the ebook bundles are still at their pre-holiday sale prices! ...Unless you're in the UK. [I'm so sorry about Brexit, folks, but there's nothing I can do about that...])

[hollowed-theory-hall]

Hi, I love your meta and your thoughts on hp characters, especially my boy Harry.

Do you think Harry really sees the Weasleys as family, or does he just see them as Ron's family? Also, did he ever feel like he didn't belong with them and felt distant even though they seemed to care for him?

I'm just curious if it is canon that he felt so close to them, or if it is just an exaggeration from fandom wanting Harry to be part of the Weasleys.

Thank you!

I think Harry loves the Weasleys and wants them to be his family — but he doesn't feel like they are. (I talked about this a bit here)

I think, what makes it the clearest is how he calls Arthur and Molly — Mr. and Mrs. Weasley throughout the entire series. He is not close enough to them to call them by their names.

He thinks of them as Ron's parents. The other Weasley kids are Ron's siblings — not Harry's. Ron and Hermione are like Harry's family, but the other Weasleys are not.

Harry sat down, took the square parcel she had indicated, and unwrapped it. Inside was a watch very like the one Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had given Ron for his seventeenth; it was gold, with stars circling around the face instead of hands. “It’s traditional to give a wizard a watch when he comes of age.” said Mrs. Weasley, watching him anxiously from beside the corner. “I’m afraid that one isn’t new like Ron’s, it was actually my brother Fabian’s and he wasn’t terribly careful with his possessions, it’s a bit dented on the back, but-” The rest of her speech was lost; Harry had got up and hugged her, He tried to put a lot of unsaid things into the hug and perhaps she understood them, because she patted his check clumsily when he released her, then waved her wand in a slightly random way, causing half a pack of bacon out of the frying pan onto the floor.

(DH, Ch7)

Harry loves the concept of the Weasleys as a family. He wishes to feel like family, and is touched when Arthur & Molly go out of their way to integrate him — but they are still Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, not Arthur and Molly.

Even later in DH, you see how he doesn't really think of hismelf as one of the Weasleys:

The Great Hall seemed to fly away, become smaller, shrink, as Harry reeled backward from the doorway. He could not draw breath. He could not bear to look at any of the other bodies, to see who else had died for him. He could not bear to join the Weasleys, could not look into their eyes, when if he had given himself up in the first place, Fred might never have died. . .

(DH, Ch33)

He spotted Ginny two tables away; she was sitting with her head on her mother’s shoulder: There would be time to talk later, hours and days and maybe years in which to talk. [...] Everywhere he looked he saw families reunited, and finally, he saw the two whose company he craved most.

(DH, Ch36)

He seeks out Ron and Hermione, and Ron and Hermione alone. He doesn't feel comfortable joining in with the Weasleys as the family unites to mourn Fred. He doesn't feel like he belongs. Regardless of how many sweaters and homemade goods Mrs. Weasley sends Harry, how much he likes her, he still calls her Mrs. Weasley and doesn't feel comfortable opening up to her or talking to her about anything serious. Harry loves Mr. Weasley, but he never treats him like a parental figure. Neither does he treat Molly like a parental figure to him.

When he's upset, he talks to Sirius, he doesn't try to reach out to Arthur & Molly. He never writes them letters. And they don't send him letters either (besides the one in OotP where Arthur tells him not to leave the Dursleys, but it doesn't really count). He never sends letters to any of Ron's brothers, even though Ron does so on occasion. The only people Harry really treats as his family are Sirius, Ron, and Hermione.

He loves the Weasleys, but besides Ron (and Hermione), they aren't his family. He doesn't feel like one of them. It's why he is so touched every time Mrs. Weasley does something that reminds him she sees him as family:

“He’s not your son,” said Sirius quietly. “He’s as good as,” said Mrs. Weasley fiercely. “Who else has he got?” “He’s got me!” [...] “I think Harry ought to be allowed a say in this,” Lupin continued. “He’s old enough to decide for himself.” “I want to know what’s been going on,” Harry said at once. He did not look at Mrs. Weasley. He had been touched by what she had said about his being as good as a son, but he was also impatient at her mollycoddling. . . . Sirius was right, he was not a child.

(OotP, Ch5)

Because he doesn't really think of himself as their family. It isn't obvious to him — he doesn't see himself as her son. But he kinda wishes he was.

[elizabethsnuts]

i ❤️ your work! they're so, so, so, so, so, so cute! what would hotch's toddler daughter think of his beard when he comes back from overseas? would you be willing to write a little something on that? 🥰

New Beard

Aaron Hotchner x Daughter!Reader

Summary: Aaron gets back from Pakistan but you didn’t recognise him with his new look.

———

It felt like years of waiting for your dad to get back from his temporary duty in Pakistan, in reality, it was only a couple of months. But to you, a toddler who couldn’t exactly grasp the concept of time, it sure felt like an excruciatingly long time. You and Jack were sitting by the window, watching the cars pass by as you waited for Aaron’s to come past and pull into the driveway.

You saw a white car drive past, looking at it with curiosity and suspense. “That Daddy’s car?”

Jack shook his head, sighing in slight boredom. He just wanted Aaron to get home. “No, Daddy’s car is an SUV.”

You nodded in understanding, keeping your eyes trained on the cars. You had absolutely no idea that the regular car that you got driven in was an SUV, you didn’t even know an SUV was a car, so you just kept thinking that any car could be his. In your defence, you were barely 2. “That Daddy?”

Jack turned to you, a frown on his face at your lack of car knowledge. “Y/N, that’s a van, not an SUV.”

You just nodded again slowly, looking back out the window. You didn’t know the difference, all cars were cars to you and you didn’t care. “Oh.”

Jessica chuckled softly from the couch, keeping an eye on the two of you. “Jack, I don’t think N/N knows which cars are which.”

Suddenly an SUV pulled into the driveway, and Jack quickly jumped up running to the door. “Daddy’s here! It’s his car!”

You quickly gasped, scrambling off the chair and clumsily running behind Jack to get to the door with him. “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”

Aaron had made his way to the door, ready to greet the two of you who were basically jumping with excitement to see him. You took one look at him and your face suddenly dropped. “Who you?”

Jack’s face scrunched up, looking at the beard on Aaron’s face. “Daddy why do you have a beard, ew…”

Aaron just frowned at Jack, waiting for his hug. “It’s not that bad? Is it?”

Jack nodded and gave him a hesitant but tight hug. “Daddy, I hate it. Shave it off.”

You were still trying to figure out who just came into your house, not recognising it was Aaron. “Who you, Mr?”

Aaron’s frown deepened as he heard you. He knelt down to your level. “It’s me! It’s Daddy. He just has a beard, sweetheart. Don’t you like it?”

You shook your head, crossing your tiny arms. “You not Daddy. Daddy not you.”

Aaron was not impressed by you not being able to recognise him, meanwhile, Jessica had to stop herself from laughing. Jack turned to you with a frown mirroring his dad’s. “Y/N, it’s Daddy. He just has a yucky beard.”

You study Aaron intensely, you guess you could see the similarities. You slowly came to the realisation that it was in fact your dad standing in front of you. You scrunched up your little face, clearly expressing your distaste. “Daddy, what happen! Ewww!”

Aaron just groaned, he half-expected the two of you to hate it, but not this much. “Come on, guys… really? You don’t like it even a little bit?”

You shook your head firmly. “No, it ‘gusting.”

Jack giggled at you. “It’s disgusting, not ‘gusting.”

You just shrugged and picked up your pacifier. “I brush it?”

A smirk appeared on your dad’s face as he heard your request, he wasn’t expecting that. “You want to brush my beard?”

You nodded with an innocent smile. “Yes, brush ‘way. Get rid.”

You quickly scurried to get a hairbrush from the bathroom. You were really pleased that Aaron was home, even if you didn’t recognise him at first and his gross beard. It was safe to say it did not last and was most certainly gone the next day.

[yanderes-galore]

Fandom: Souls-Like Games 

Character: Maliketh, the Black Blade (Elden Ring) 

Pairing: Romantic/Platonic 

Type of Fic: Concept

Thank you. :)

I can try, sure :) Here he is... I hope I did well with his character. Sorry I made it platonic... I couldn't figure out romance with him and I feel platonic fit better.

Yandere! Platonic! Maliketh, The Black Blade Concept

Pairing: Platonic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Overprotective behavior, Violence, Possessive behavior, Manipulation, Dubious companionship.

Maliketh has only ever been given one goal.

Protect the Rune of Death for Marika to preserve the Golden Order.

Maliketh is known as Marika's Shadow, a beast meant to protect and serve.

Ironically, he takes the form of a canine-like being, a loyal hound to Marika.

Unfortunately, there isn't much known about him character-wise.

His biggest traits are being a protector and guard to the Rune of Death.

While the request wanted this general... I feel platonic makes the most sense for him?

He's a beast, one meant to serve Empyreans.

He shall preserve the Golden Order, no matter the cost.

The first storyline that comes to mind is you being a sibling of Marika... or maybe even a child of hers.

Which in turn, somehow, makes you related to Maliketh.

The beast no doubt knows about you.

How could he not? He's loyal to Marika... and you are of her blood.

This would, theoretically, make Maliketh fond of you.

The lupin half beast knows he has one goal, protect Destined Death, yet you often visit.

Maliketh often tells you not to visit, he is doing his job for Marika.

He even asks you what Marika would think if you kept distracting him.

You never seemed to care what Marika would think though.

Instead you insisted on keeping her Shadow company, praising him and speaking to him.

He hates to admit it... but Maliketh enjoys your presence.

Your presence is the only company he's had in a long time.

Part of him even wonders if Marika sends you to him.

Does she care for him even now?

Even when he's losing himself to his need for Death Root... you keep visiting.

You, an Empyrean, keep him sane.

He's so close to just becoming a feral beast...

Yet you give him purpose, even when Marika can not.

You make protecting the Rune much easier.

Although... Imagine if you treat him like a dog?

Maliketh is meant to be a loyal hound to Marika, and by extension you.

He may be Marika's Shadow... but he yearns for your attention.

Even when he stays hidden away, you visit him and praise him.

Perhaps you even reach out and pet his fur gently.

Maliketh wants to lash out, to hate your attention...

Yet he can't.

He feels connected with you...

Like a loyal wolf.

You have no Shadow of your own, you were never assigned one.

But Maliketh seems to act like your own anyways.

He still follows Marika's set task...

Although, he often looks forward to your visits.

He doesn't care if Marika sent you or not.

The beast still finds himself waiting to see your form... to smell your scent... and to feel your touch.

It's lonely when he can only listen to his thoughts.

He doesn't want to think of his hunger.

With you... He can think of something else.

He can not crave Death Root for just a moment if he craves you instead.

You are a light for him, one as bright as the Erd Tree....

Time seems to slow when you're not in his sight.

It's torturous.

By the time you arrive back to him, to greet and praise him...

Maliketh never wants you to leave again.

The Shadow is aware he is meant to be alone.

He is meant to protect the Rune, and after the death of Godwyn, he realizes he deserves isolation as punishment.

But... as much as he hates to admit it... He pleads for you to stay.

He wants your company, for just a while longer....

Who knows, maybe you'll comply.

Maybe you'll grace him with your presence and let him protect you.

Protect... It's all he's ever good for.

He's meant to sit and stay, to defend.

The Rune, The Golden Order, The Erd Tree, Marika...

He'd much rather protect you.

No... He needs to.

Maliketh has a failing mental state...

Death Root has rotted his mind.

Your affection and attention... Just a taste makes him addicted.

Call him weak... He doesn't care.

Soon, Maliketh realizes he needs you

He needs you to stay.

He'll make sure no one harms you.

For Marika, and himself, he'll protect you.

He'll pay attention to you, be loyal to you...

He'll drag you to stay with him, your clothes in his teeth as he growls.

He's disobeying, he knows it...

He needs you....

Marika must understand... She has to...

You soothe the beast.

As long as he's soothed... he's focused... he can protect...

He doesn't care how much blood it takes.

You will stay beside him... It's not like you can die.

He prevents you from dying with his duty.

So... stay.

Stay and let him be loyal.

He may not be your Shadow...

Although that changes nothing for him, Maliketh was always meant to protect...

Now he plans to protect you, just to quiet his corrupted mind for a few moments.

[daistea]

Hi Daistea! You are absolutly THE Mithrun writer! You catch his essence so well

I was wondering if you could write a prequel to "first burn"? I would love to hear more of his thoughts about cultivating his desire for intimacy and affection with reader

Thank you so much for doing such good for the fandom!

Thank you friend! Here you go, though I kinda just.. rambled with this one. I was just having fun, I hope you like it.

Mithrun x gn Reader

Post-Canon / spoilers maybe

word count: 2,200

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

It wasn’t as if there was a handbook on how to cultivate desires. It wasn’t as if ‘normal’ people understood and recognized the process of desire. It wasn’t as if Mithrun had any clue what he was doing. 

 That, in and of itself, felt like a swaying tightrope he was only barely balancing on. Atop that, discomfort was a new concept. The end result was only more stark, suffocating discomfort. Mithrun usually knew what to do; if he ever had to figure something out, the solution came quickly, effortlessly. He was beginning to think he’d been spoiled in that area. Having such unfettered focus lended itself to problem solving. 

 Mithrun watched you. Perhaps he could be the one to write the handbook on desire. And there’d be an entire chapter dedicated to you. Was it possible to have a desire for desire? He supposed as much. He was stuck on the outer rims of the feeling, staring through a dusty window at what could be if only he could be. He was a planet stuck in the farthest orbit from the sun, and it was cold, and nobody really saw him there in the sky because he was so damn far away. 

 You ran your fingers through your hair. His attention snapped back to you like a taut rubber band. There must be a footnote in the handbook on cultivating desires about your small habits. You fidgeted, you shifted, your smile twisted into different shapes depending on your mood and every one of these habits must be footnoted. 

 Mithrun couldn’t help but make a grimace. He rested his chin in his palm and tore his gaze away, instead following the lines of the wooden panels in the wall of the restaurant. The handbook was going to be long— Gods, he wasn’t going to write it, he didn’t care enough to put in the effort. Nevertheless, one of the jagged lines in the wood paneling unlocked something within his brain. The very fact that he relentlessly took note of your every minute detail said something. 

 What did it say? Mithrun moved onto the next line in the wood. It gave him nothing. What did it say, Mithrun? What was the implication? It isn’t a hard question, Mithrun. Just answer. Just say it. Just—

 He clenched his fist. He clenched so hard that his knuckles turned white. You were still chatting away with the restaurant owner and he had half a mind to grab you by the waist and teleport you elsewhere, a place where you’d only pay attention to him. Only him. Perhaps that would answer the devastatingly easy implications that confounded him. 

 A wandering part of his mind, a traveler— which was a new feature: wandering— brought forth a query. What would you say about his inner turmoil? Most likely something along the lines of ‘I’m proud of you for trying, don’t pressure yourself so much.’ And he would ignore your words entirely because Mithrun wanted to want. 

 He must do something. There was that objective knowledge of what the situation required, it wasn’t exactly desire, but it was motivating. You deserved more. You deserved to have your hand held. You deserved kisses on your neck. You deserved gasps and moans and weak knees. He imagined the scene; you, beneath him, or in his lap, perhaps. You, closing your eyes, brows furrowed, whimpering as you sunk down and…

 Nothing. Mithrun knew he was making some sort of face, because a half-foot scurried past his table with wide eyes. Whatever. 

 Enough, he decided. It had been forty years since he had experienced any form of physical intimacy. While some feelings were more difficult to connect with, frustration was one of the easiest to identify. He’d had enough.

 Without a word to you— he probably should’ve given you a word, but he was in a hurry— Mithrun called upon his mana, the lingering spirits, and clenched his fist. A fourth of a second passed, a blink of an eye. He didn’t mean to end up on the kitchen floor of his apartment, but fine. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but you.

 Mithrun sighed and laid back. The tile was cool on the exposed skin of his hands as he stretched out his limbs. There were cobwebs in the corners of the ceilings. He could already feel a dull headache coming on from the hardness of the floor. Okay. 

 Routine: eyes closed, deep breaths, sinking into the floor and smelling the air and hearing the sounds. His kitchen smelled like soap. The sounds were absent. Images of you flickered through his mind, a rope gently tied around his body, pulling him deeper into the warm flood-waters. He imagined your arms, your waist, your thighs, your lips, your eyes, your laugh, your gasps, your stare, your hair, your hands, your knees, your chest, your stomach. Then, running his hands up your waist. Holding you. How would you feel with your body against his? How would your hand fit with his? 

 For a moment, Mithrun felt his heart pull and twist. Objectively, that was the physical reaction to adrenaline hormones in one’s body; anxiety. Yet, he didn’t believe he was anxious. He took a moment to wrack his brain, and the process of doing so always reminded him of the file room in the old Canaries headquarters. Papers would flip across his thumb as he searched for the right information. All he needed was a glimpse of the right set of letters, the right combination of words, until he found what he needed. 

 For an elf, forty-ish years wasn’t too long. Mithrun had spent the majority of his life as an entirely different person— may he rest in agony. He sometimes looked back on memories in order to identify a feeling. Past Mithrun would feel that pull and twist when Lord Kerensil made those snide comments about Mithrun’s biological father. That twist and pull was always present when Obrin idly, innocently, mentioned an investment deal he’d been allowed to participate in, as the heir to the House of Kerensil. That twist and pull was present when he saw Sultha send Obrin those wry smiles, how her lips twisted in a way that made Mithrun sick to his stomach. 

 To even dare associate that feeling with you brought the same nausea. 

 Yet, perhaps it wasn’t about you. 

 Perhaps it was him. Perhaps it was the self-loathing. He’d always carried it like a disease, though the symptoms only appeared in certain moments. Lately, though, he’d been sick with it more often than not. The happiness of a new purpose was parallel to the newfound connection with his more negative emotions. Mithrun supposed that it was person-hood; anger, sadness, joy, attraction, deep and intense adoration that made him physically ill when he meditated for too long about how he couldn’t quite feel the allure of a kiss. 

 That was his person-hood. Mithrun’s life was a constant struggle, and the kitchen floor felt abnormally cold that evening. 

 Kabru suggested that Mithrun keep track of new developments. It would help him, Kabru said. Mithrun had no protests nor interest in the theory, but nothing better to do, so he had a journal. Thus far, only one page in the journal had been filled. It said: 

1. Cheese is alright, preferably on bread

 Very exciting, at least for some— you and Kabru, particularly. Mithrun had a preference! Despite your excitement, you still put up your hands and waved them as if to ward off the positivity, “You’ve always had preferences, you know. It was just easy to overlook them.”

 Mithrun supposed you were right. He had plenty to complain about. That was preference-based, in a way. Obsession over the demon was such a large issue, though, that it left no room for anything else. It was like a flood, seeping into every corner, taking every inch, leaving nothing untouched and dry. 

 The second item in the journal was:

2. Black coffee, two sugars

 That was how he used to drink it. Some things never changed. Even if the timing was different throughout the year, the sun would always rise and set.

3. Desiring some sort of physical contact involving hands (with [name] specifically)

 And when Mithrun desired something, he would have it. Inevitable. He knew from an objective standpoint that carrying on with that view would only lead to disappointment, but the desire to change did not arise.

 Mithrun began taking your hand whenever the opportunity presented itself. 

 The first time, you glanced at him. Your lips were parted and your eyes the slightest bit wider. You looked down at your intertwined fingers. Mithrun did not dare look away from your face as you studied how each finger fit together like pieces of a puzzle— designed specifically for each other. 

 When you turned your head back to the person you were originally speaking to and resumed your conversation, satisfaction like a warm blanket settled over Mithrun’s shoulders and chest. He may have looked a bit smug without realizing it, for your conversation partner sent him a look. 

Next:

4. The palm is more sensitive than I remember. I think it would be okay to use it. 

 Mithrun pressed the palm of his hand against the small of your back. You had no reaction. He wasn’t sure whether to be pleased that you accepted his touch so readily, or displeased that he saw no acknowledgement. He settled for some in-between feeling that even Past Mithrun could not identify. 

 Without putting it into certain words, Mithrun had an idea of why his skin felt so sensitive to your touch. For one, he’d gone so long without physical touch that his nerves were desert dwellers encountering an oasis for the first time. Secondly, it was the broadest part of the hand. The fingers were important, of course, they wrapped and they clutched and they stroked. Yet, the palm was deeper. It was taken for granted. Everybody in possession of fingers used them every day of their life. They were mundane, almost. The palm, though, was for cradling. The palm was for tracing. The palm was—

 Mithrun lifted your hand without a second thought. He’d nearly forgotten what shame felt like, it was another one of those objective feelings that he could identify in others but not quite connect with. Shame was not present at that moment, and he was pleased for that fact. If he had shame, then he would not experience the feeling of your palm against his lips. 

 He held your wrist with both hands. Your skin smelled like soap, and it was not exactly soft. There were lines and ridges on the palm, but he took a moment to memorize the shape of each one against his lips as he pressed a kiss to the spot between your thumb and index finger. 

 Your conversation partner looked away. You looked at Mithrun. He looked at you, his good eye fluttering open and taking in the sight of your expectancy and surprise and fondness and embarrassment. 

 Three seconds passed. Mithrun knew it was three seconds that passed because he counted. One, pause. Two, pause. Three, pause. 

 You swallowed and looked back at the person you’d been speaking to. Mithrun knew them, but didn’t care enough to allow his brain to make that connection between their face and his memories. His gaze was solely on you. Your profile was silhouetted against the orange sunset of Melini. 

 “Anyway, what were you saying?” You asked the person Mithrun didn’t care to identify— because you were the newest flood. You spread in a similar manner, filling up every inch and leaving nothing dry. Something in the back of his mind told him that that wasn’t healthy. Where there was a flood, there was mold and rot and destruction. 

 Whatever. 

 “The state of Melini,” your conversation partner said, “it’s really becoming a nation now.”

 You nodded, “It’ll take time, but we’ll get there.”

 That was such a generic statement, but you believed it. Perhaps the commonplace quality of the statement was what made it less feasible. Yet, when coming from your lips, Mithrun could almost imagine it. 

 Your lips. You said the most wonderful things, even when they were totally common and quotidian. You could tell Mithrun that the sun had exploded, and despite the clear existence of the sun in the sky at that very moment, he’d agree with you simply to see you satisfied.

 The desire to kiss you hit Mithrun like a slap to the face— no, actually, Past Mithrun had been slapped several times before, and he always knew it was coming. The desire to kiss you hit him like the taste of cheese on toasted bread, like the pleasure of a black coffee with two sugars, like the shiver down his spine when your palm pressed against his. 

 And finally, the handbook of desire was written. There were no words. It didn’t need words. 

 He desired you. 

 What even was attraction? What even was happiness and anger and desire? It was so subjective that the answer would never satisfy the inquirer. And Mithrun was tired of dissatisfaction.

 And it was time to act. 

 And it was time to open the gates. 

 And it was time to drown in desires he’d never let himself acknowledge. 

5. Start slowly. Whatever happens, happens. You can want now. 

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

[lady-ephemeral]

Do y’all ever think about the Gortash and Raphael parallels?

I am still SO salty that BG3 didn’t dive deeper into Raphael, Mephistopheles, and Gortash, because I feel like it could’ve been a phenomenal addition to the game since one of the main themes is the cycle of abuse, and whether or not you choose to continue it.

We can infer that Raphael and Mephisto don’t have a stellar relationship. In fact it was likely very abusive, and probably the driving force behind Raphael’s narcissistic behavior (If no one at all cares for me, then I will be all I care about).

And even though he is technically the heir the archduke, and that certainly gives him an advantage, Raphael is still a cambion, not a full devil. Cambions are looked down upon for their mortal half, and most end up just working for another archdevil. And since they are immortal, being an heir I feel would function more as just an additional title, rather than something with great weight. Raphael is a special case because he seems to be rather independent compared to someone like Mizora, who heavily relies on staying in Zariel’s good favor. Whether or not there was nepotism at play, Raphael still most likely had to do a tremendous amount of work to get where he is.

And then we have Gortash, who starts from practically nothing. Before even entering the House of Hope, he was already at a disadvantage. He was abused by the Flymms, and then he lived in literal hell with Raphael as the only adult figure that even slightly resembles a parent before getting out and once again having to start with nothing. He had to literally claw and fight to get where he is.

Raphael and Gortash are very similar characters with very similar goals, both tenacious, ambitious and heavily rely on their wits. Gortash wants to conquer Baldur’s Gate and then beyond, Raphael wants to conquer the nine hells. Even their styles are somewhat reminiscent of each other, with Enver’s ostentatious clothes seemingly being influenced by Raphael’s taste. This is especially clear if you look at the concept art for the characters.

Like you can see the resemblance. (Also Larian PLEASE give Gortash back his thigh-high boots)

The setup is already there, WHY didn’t they lean more into it? Both Raphael and Enver would have that feeling of “I fucking despise you. I absolutely loathe you, but I want you to see me. I want you to look upon what I’ve achieved and give me the respect I’m owed”.

Like there is no doubt in my mind that the way Raphael sees Gortash is similar to the way Mephisto sees him.

Even if it had been through diary entries and letters, it would've been nice to see more of this, and it would’ve developed both Raphael and Gortash more. Mephistopheles wouldn’t even need to make an appearance (although he would’ve been cool to see. the worse the father the hotter he is as a dilf, I don’t make the rules)

[callmebrycelee]

I've been mulling this over for the last few days and I figured I'd just put what I'm thinking out there in hopes that someone will understand what I'm coming from. I'm reading a wonderful fanfic where Buck leaves the 118 and goes to work at Air Operations. He is paired with Tommy and the two of them strike up a friendship and an eventual romance. I'm only a few chapters into the story and there's a conversation where Buck and Tommy are relaying their backstories to each other. Buck talks about getting crushed by the fire engine, the subsequent surgery and setback, and him suing the LAFD. Tommy talks about his time in the Army and ultimately joining the 118. He goes into vivid detail about every single awful thing he did to Chimney and Hen. He ends the story by telling Buck that even though the Chimney and Hen chose to forgave him, he can't quite move past his guilt and works hard daily to become a better person. The thing I've been mulling over is the concept of white guilt and how it often triumphs over forgiveness extended by people of color. I find this so funny because even when people of color, esepcially Black people, are at their most vulnerable and open, whiteness still finds a way to be greater than.

Now I'm not here to excuse any of what Tommy did during his time at the 118, but I have to admit that the majority of the people I have seen taking umbrage with Tommy and his behavior, even after he has been forgiven by those whom he offended, and even after he has taken strides to change, are white, non-queer individuals. And before we making this a B*ddie versus BuckTommy situation, I have seen individuals from both sides of the fence taking Tommy to task.

Before I jump into my thoughts on this, let me just say that I'm a Black man. I'm also a queer man. Most importantly I'm a Black queer man and let me tell you a little something about poor behavior from white people. It happens so much and so frequent that oftentimes I don't even see it happening until I am allowed to have a moment to process and reflect. With that said, quite a few of my close friends and acquaintances are white and all of them at some point have said or done something deliberately or accidentally offensive to me. Now not all Black and/or queer people are a monolift so let me make this very clear right now. I am speaking on behalf of myself and myself only.

Now that I've gotten out of the way, I will say that in any and all cases where I have been offended, my forgiveness is more for myself than the other person. Forgiveness is something I do to protect my peace. I fundamentally understand how whiteness works here in America and I understand how it operates. You don't get to half 39 years as a Black queer person without learning this. Especialy living in the the south. I also realize that at the apex of whiteness is the white, straight male and whether we realize it or not, we all, for the most part, at some point, seek proximity to him. You see this happen with white women, with Black men, and evenwith gay white men. In fact, the only group you don't tend to see this with is Black queer women and I believe this is because they are truly the antithesis of the white apex.

With that said, any time my friends or acquaintances have behaved badly, especially towards me, especially regarding my race and/or sexuality, I understand where that energy comes from. I really do. And, if we are being truly transparent here, there have been moments in my younger existence where I actively participated in the oppression of Black women and queer people. I, too, was a Tommy who hid myself by participating in the toxicity directed towards queer people. And yes, I felt tremendous guilt for my actions when I had time to reflect.

Here is the thing people forget about guilt. Much like grief, guilt ebbs and flows, and it doesn't really go away. What happens, or what should happen, is that your world gets bigger and bigger to the point where that grief or that guilt doesn't occupy as much space. That's exactly what I believe has happened to Tommy Kinard. Yes, he still feels bad about what he did to his friends back then (and he should) but his world has gotten so much bigger since then. That guilt that was once a loud roar is hopefully only a whisper now because he has done the work to understand why he behaved the way he did and has taken strides to be a better version of himself.

So, to all the white, non-queer individuals out there who have been taking Tommy to task for things he did a long time ago, things he's been forgiven of a long time ago, parts of himself that he has made better, ask yourself this one simple question. Why should my guilt (white guilt) be bigger than the forgiveness provided to him by those he offended? Second question I would ask you to ask yourself. Why am I demanding that Tommy actively punish himself and be punished for something he has already been forgiven of? When you answer that question, there is one last question I want you to ask yourself. Why am I feeling guilty and projecting that guilt onto someone else?

Again, I am not excusing any of what Tommy Kinard said or did during that time of his life. I just find it strange that so many of you are condemining him of something he once did when you should be asking yourself, am I actively participating in the oppression of those around me. There's a 99.9% chance you are so maybe focus on your own garden before you start asking others to clean up theirs. Also, for those of you coming at this from the angle of, well we didn't see Hen and Chimney forgive him. So what! Unless you have a camera following you around 24/7, no one will ever get to see you be forgiven of the fucked up stuff you've been doing. Most of all, stop projecting onto fictional characters. It's weird. Okay, those are my thoughts. Do what with them what you wish. As always, these are my opinions.

[sanemisstalker]

no matter how much dick I get... the urge to do vile things to this man will always prevail

NSFW MINORS DNI - AFAB/GN REFFERED READER - HEAD - TOXIC MASCULINITY (Belief that a penis is needed to make a man) - Sanemi with a CANNIBALISM/DIETY kink? Idk I got a little frisky with the head talk. - He begs for help at one point. HYPER CONSENT.

NEEDY FOR HEAD - WITH SANEMI

-'I don't like it when you get- lower like that. Makes my teeth ache. I feel like you're gonna... bite it off.'

-You're a little offended by the implication. Sure you're a little weird and off putting, but fuck all, you weren't REALLY gonna bite Sanemi's cock off when it came to it.

-You sigh.

-This little fit of his had been going on for a while, now. Sure you can get head all you want, but lord forbid YOU want to GIVE. Lord forbid YOU want to SATISFY.

-'It's not funny anymore.'

-'Wasn't ever trying to be funny.' he spits in turn.

-'Then I'd like an unfunny answer.'

-'I'm being serious, damn! It feels like my balls are gonna go up when you're down there! Why don't you believe me?!'

-Sanemi had never been very explicit about his wants. Keeping your laugh to yourself was a little hard at such a question. Sanemi's face blared red in response.

-'That's it! I'm putting my cl-'

-You lept for him, pulling him back down to the bed. You forgot you had to be kind, and slow. Sanemi never really had the kind of face that begged for such things, but that was part of the problem. Sanemi never really liked to beg.

-'No! NO! I'm sorry- it's not funny, it's- Sanemi, you know how often this happens.' He stilled, more than a little tense at the accusation. 'You are- I know it's hard, but... biting it off?'

-'Y-Yes.' He'd huff. 'I- it just feels weird.'

-'Bad weird, scary we-'

-'Like I'm going to... Embarass myself weird.'

-Your silence followed, and then Sanemi turned even further away from you. He was unwilling to pull his hand from your grasp in an effective way. Instead resorting to a very feeble wiggle and slight whine.

-'Let me go.' He mumbled.

-'No way! No way-' You rush, tugging him down to the bed. You pull him against you. He seems to soften as your breasts press into his forearm. 'That doesn't sound all that bad.'

-Sanemi would rather die. The thought of him... letting go so... early. So explicitly at your will, so weak and helpless, his only call to manhood left in the fight of your biting maw-

-Part of it excited him, he figured. But he didn't figure that deep. If he did, he'd know this and that about submission, and maybe the light sense of masochism that made the concept all that more thrilling.

-Maybe it scared him a little knowing you could hurt him there if you wanted to, and maybe he got a little hard when he got scared. Maybe Sanemi missed being scared,

-When you talk him into it, he's most reluctant to see your teeth, but you let him play with the connection between his tip and your tongue. Giving him all the power to pull away when it just gets too much.

-Your tastes buds are far different from the ribbing of your pussy. They're delicate, and you have far more control over that muscle, so when you take Sanemi fully in your mouth, he's flung to the bed.

-He's seeing god, he thinks. He can almost imagine your jaw clamping down, taking it all away from him, keeping it for yourself.

-He's enthralled by how willing he is. By how bad he wants it to be all yours. How delusional he is for thinking you'd even think this way. This is simply an act of pleasure to you, but one of Divinity to him. This is God, for he, such a simple man, cannot grasp the eccentricities of religion when they are found anywhere other than the beads of spit between his base and your lips.

-He begins sobbing, almost hoping you'll make it stop. He can't feel this good, he can't know the world feels this good. How cruel to send him back to war when he's knows the sound of a song birds throat.

-He's a head pusher. He can't help it. He feels too good, he's blacking out half way through, which isn't very long. Not at all, practically convulsing on the bed.

-'Oh!- Ah--- Y/N- Oh- God- God- Ah!' And all the ooh's and aah's as he cums sobbing down your throat.

-It's enough to spill out of your lips, and find its way back to his pubes, all covered in your spit and snot. And he's breathing heavy and shaking still because god knows that cock never really gets to cum it all away- those balls can never truly be empty.

-'Oh- god- god- help- help-' He's choking, grabbing his face to brush the tears away.

-You're a little dumbfounded. You're not sure what the fuss is, but you're excited to try deep throating him for the first time. That'll probably make him die or something, he might die-

[lexosaurus]

Gym 101

In which Valerie forces Danny to go workout with her

[ao3]

Characters: Danny & Valerie Warnings: None Wc: 2,230

****

"You're not engaging your core, Danny. What do I keep telling you?" Valerie sighed and put down her weight. "You're going to fuck up your knees if you don't slow down and do this right."

"And I keep telling you I don't even know what that means!" Danny snapped, not for the first time this week and probably not the last.

When he told Valerie that he, Danny Fenton, was also Danny Phantom, Danny had been expecting Valerie to be so mad at him that she never wanted to speak to him again.

And, well, she had been that mad at him. Very mad, in fact. So pissed, that for a minute, Danny was worried she was going to blast him off her roof.

He hadn't stuck around long after that.

And while he was beginning to make himself comfortable in the campground called, "Valerie's Cold Shoulder," he barely had two days to settle in before she had seemingly decided that enough was enough. 

Just before homeroom began, she strode to him in the hall, pulled him to the side—literally, she yanked him around the corner by his shirt sleeve—and demanded they start hitting the gym together.

"Because," Valerie had explained at his whining, and not patiently either, "I get that you have ghost powers, but your human half is such a twig. Seriously, Danny, do you know how much you're holding yourself back right now? If you actually tried strength training, I bet you'd level up pretty hardcore in ghost fights. Who knows? You might be able to train your reflexes to dodge one of Skulker's blasts from time to time."

And well, that bruise to both Danny's ghostly ego and his human teenage boy ego had been all he needed to agree to start working out with none other than his former rival turned ally, Valerie Gray.

"Stand up straight," Valerie ordered, pulling him back to his present world of pain.

He had no idea how Jazz and his mom liked doing this stuff. At the current moment, he was pretty sure the person who invented the concept of lifting weights was a giant masochist because there was simply no way in hell anyone throughout history would have ever said, "You know what sounds like the most fun thing ever? Let's take heavy objects, lift them, do a little movement, and then put them back down in the same spot we lifted them from!"

But apparently, he was the weirdo for not understanding why there was a dedicated fanbase of people who put a metal bar on their back, put some weights on the sides of the bar, squatted into a crouch, and then stood back up.

And repeated the process.

Again.

And again.

And again. Ten times, resting, and then ten more times.

Danny weakly stood, gripping the bar behind his shoulders like it was the only thing tethering his will to live to this plane of existence, and glared at Valerie through sweaty bangs. "Okay, standing. What next?"

"We godda fix your core."

"Be my guest," Danny said. He wasn't even sure if Valerie could fix something he'd never had to begin with, but if she truly wanted to, then...whatever. He'd lost by coming here, anyway.

Valerie scrutinized him as if he was some sort of science project that wasn't quite working out how she'd hoped. Which, thinking about it for a moment, he figured that was probably exactly what he was to Valerie. 

Then, without warning, she put her hand on his stomach.

Now, Phantom was largely considered a very suave and cool hero. Well, maybe Sam and Tucker would disagree, and sure there was a whole TikTok tag dedicated to videos of him falling into random objects, but still. There were enough random people around who would agree that Phantom was at least somewhat socially sufficient.

But Fenton on the other hand was very much not. He was an awkward, goofy teen. He wasn't popular, and he didn't exactly have a lot of girls fawning over him at every turn.

Which was why Valerie, his former girlfriend who maybe he still had some deeply buried feelings for, touching him so casually was setting off all sorts of alarm bells in his brain.

"...got it?" Valerie was saying.

Certainly, she had said something.

Something that Danny was supposed to be listening to.

Oh, shit. 

"Uh..." Danny tried to re-circuit his brain.

"Here, follow my lead. Okay? Breathe," she said. "Good. Now, tighten your abs."

Danny tried his best to follow.

"No, see, you're sucking in. Tightening your abs doesn't mean sucking in. It's like, okay, think of it this way. Try hardening your abs into a brick wall. Like, squeeze them together. Now—yeah, like that. Now, can you try adding your side and lower back into that brick wall too?"

"Try adding what?"

The corners of Valerie's lip twitched up. "The sides of your stomach? You have abs there too. And there are muscles in your lower back. That's all part of your core too. Remember what I said about your core's job to keep your body stable? Those muscles are all important for that."

"Valerie, I think you're really overestimating how in shape I am. I didn't even know there was more than one ab muscle, much less that there were abs on the sides of my body."

"Well, you have them, ghost boy."

"Doesn't help much if I can't feel them."

Valerie rolled her eyes. "Well, just try your best."

"Yes, Ma'am." Danny did his best to follow her lead while also struggling to ignore the fact that her hand was still on his stomach. 

He was so glad Tucker wasn't here to see his face. He could only hope that Valerie had come to the conclusion that the redness he could feel burning from his cheeks was proof that he was way more out of shape than she thought he was. That was still pretty embarrassing, and likely not even all wrong, but he would take it over the truth.

"Okay, now reset your shoulders. Stop hunching so much," she said.

"But the bar feels weird," Danny defended.

"Yeah, yeah, you'll get used to it. Stop looking down so much. You want your spine to be straight."

"I know." 

Half of what Valerie had been telling him for the past week was to straighten his spine. He couldn't help it if his back was a visual representation of his many years of late-night gaming. 

"Okay, now squat down." She leaned forward, and her dark eyes were just inches from his own. "No—look at me the whole time. Don't drop your eyes to your feet."

Oh, his face was burning burning now.

He slowly lowered his body, focusing on staying balanced as best as he could. Having a bar on his back was still a new sensation, and Valerie was refusing to let him load any weight onto it. Apparently, everyone started from an empty bar until they got the hang of the motion. Danny wasn't sure if that was something Valerie was just saying to be nice to him, or if that was actually true. 

He did try asking, and she just got offended that he would dare think so low of her that she would lie about something gym-related, and then she told him to stop screwing around and focus on the exercise.

So, it was fifty-fifty at this point.

"Keep going down," Valerie instructed, stepping back and thankfully removing her hand from him in the process.

Seriously, that had been the longest several seconds of his entire life and half-life combined.

"But I thought you weren't supposed to go past ninety degrees or something?" Danny asked from his invisible chair-like position in his squat.

"No, that's a lie. I think they just tell that to people who have butt-wink or bad mobility or something."

"The hell is butt-wink? See, now I just think you're making stuff up."

"I'm not! It's actually something you're doing right now." Valerie pointed at him in the mirror. "See how your pelvis is tucking in and curving your lower back? That's butt-wink." She moved to stand next to him and lowered down in a squat. "See my lower back? It's straight. This is how you want to be."

Danny wasn't aware that working out would just give him more things to be self-conscious about. He tried to straighten his lower back, but it was almost impossible to do so without feeling like he was going to fall on his ass. "Okay, then how do I fix that?"

"Well, I'm not exactly a doctor, so I'm sure it could be caused by a few different things. But the most common one I've heard is that butt wink happens when your core is shit. But it could also just as likely be an ankle and hip flexibility issue too."

Danny rolled his eyes. "As we've established, my core is shit. And I'm not flexible at all. "

"Yeah, I know," Valerie lamented. "I can't believe you've been fighting as Phantom for all these years and you haven't gone to the gym even once. Isn't Sam really into working out or something? Why didn't you ask to be her gym buddy?"

"Because I value my life." Danny paused. "My half-life, whatever. Tucker worked out with her once to prepare for the President's fitness test they did freshmen year, and I didn't stop hearing about it for months. She's ruthless."

"You know what, I believe that."

"Yup," Danny grunted, lowering to do another squat.

Two down, about five million more to go.

People actually enjoyed lifting weights? They came to the gym willingly? As in, of their own volition?

They seriously sweated and lifted heavy objects in a room surrounded by a bunch of equally sweaty, smelly strangers who were lifting other objects? 

And they thought it was fun?

That seemed absurd.

Valerie scrunched her nose at him.

"What?" Danny asked, his voice teetering past the line between speaking normally and whining, but he was far too exhausted to care. "Why are you looking at me like that? What am I doing wrong now?"

"No, it's just—" Valerie tilted her head. "Try widening your stance more. And maybe try pointing your toes out a little bit. That should help with your form. I mean, ideally, your ankle mobility would be better, but given it's pretty shit right now, this might be the best fix."

"God, I'm hopeless. Just give me the word and I'll leave."

"Oh, stop. You're not hopeless. You just need to stretch more. And train more."

Danny shuffled his feet and bent down into another squat. Having a wider stand did make the squat feel easier, but he wasn't about to admit that to her. "No, I am definitely hopeless. It'll be a blow to my ego, but I think I can emotionally recover if I leave the gym right now."

Valerie punched his arm, though it had no real power to it. She'd long since stopped legitimately trying to hurt him. 

Nevertheless, he would have sooner let Skulker capture him than pass up an opportunity to verbally torment Valerie. "Wow, I can't believe my ally is trying to beat me up and murder me in public. Especially while I'm trying to better myself in the gym."

"Oh, shut up." Although she tried to look angry, Danny could see the corners of her lips quirk into a smile. "Alright, your form is looking a lot better. It's still not perfect, but it's way better than when we started."

"Thank god."

"Maybe in a few weeks we can start adding plates."

A few weeks?

He must have let his internal expression show, because she once again snapped with, "It's normal for people to only squat the bar when they first start. It's way more important to get proper form than to lift heavy. You see that guy over there?"

She nodded across the room at a man doing chest presses. He was using weights that Danny could only dream of, pumping them up and down with a confidence that Danny was sure rivaled even Dash.

So the man looked alright to Danny, but apparently, that was the wrong conclusion to come to, if Valerie's critical eye was any judge.

"See how his elbows are basically straight out from his body? And see how he's not extending his arms all the way when he presses? He's rushing through the exercise. It's bad form, and while it may feel cool to lift heavy, bulky weights, if you can't even do the exercise properly, you just end up looking like a fool." She turned back to him. "Remember, you're in a gym. That means you're surrounded by people who have been doing this shit for years. Trust me when I say you're not going to impress anyone by rushing through the exercises to try to look cool."

"Aye-aye, captain."

It wasn't like he was going to impress anyone with the way he was wobbling while attempting to squat the naked bar, anyway.

"Alright, that's enough of a rest, I think. This time, let's actually do eight reps."

"Literal torture."

"Keep the whining up, and I might just call my blaster out."

Danny could see it in her eyes that she wasn't joking.

And so, he began.

****

[read more of my fics here]

[yesimwriting]

Would bestie reader just say that she and felix are soulmates?

For example: her and farleigh are talking about the future and what they want to do and she just says "i would probably work and move somewhere sunny because felix doesnt really like the rain". " You want to live with felix?" " OFC, hes my soumate"

Felix: 🥺

yes yes yes! omg they so would pull the platonic soulmate card

You don't know who decided to label group study sessions as 'productive', but you're convinced they've never actually been to one. As a concept, they're the perfect way to balance social needs and academic responsibilities. It's a way to focus on your school work without isolating yourself completely.

In practice, group study sessions are an academic-hang-out purgatory.

"Y'know how you asked to not be interrupted until you finished your organic bio reading, unless there was an emergency?" Farleigh's voice has now yanked you out of the world of protein and enzyme molecules.

You sigh. If this is him giving into his inability to not snark at you, you might have to pick up your text book and hit him over the head with it. "Is there an emergency?"

The dryness of your response does little to dissuade him. You lift your head slightly. The reading break that's being forced onto you is an opportunity to get ready to copy some bullet points into your notebook. You reach for your highlighter, but before your fingers can grasp it, Farleigh's pulling it out of reach.

You straighten, back pressing into the wooden back of the library's chair. He ignores your glare, thumb pushing the neon pink cap upwards before snapping it back into place.

"I'd be careful, Farleigh." Felix's chair shifts with a soft groan, all four of the chair's legs fully settling on the ground as he sits up and flattens his feet. "That's not one of her nice looks."

"You'd know."

You frown, some half thought out sarcastic retort balancing on the edge of your tongue. Felix beats you to the punch. "You'd know if you had any real friendships."

Farleigh presses down on your highlighter's cap, a quiet click interrupting his silence as it clicks into place. "Friendship. Is that what we're calling it?"

There's a knowingness to the comment that has a hint of warmth attempting to tinge your cheeks. You're used to the jokes and little comments about you and Felix, especially from Farleigh, but his tone hints at a sharpness you're not in the mood for. Sometimes he feels like pushing, turning his jokes and comments into something more. You've been in the library for some time now, you're sure the stillness is making him restless in a way that will only add to that.

"Is this the emergency you interrupted my reading for?"

He shakes his head once, forearm moving to rest against the table in front of you. "Theoretically," he starts, the single word drawn out in a way that has you rolling your eyes, "If Madison was seen leaving a party with Abigail's ex-boyfriend, would that count as an emergency?"

No way. Your jaw drops. Madison and Abigail, roommates that seem perpetually trapped in the outer orbit of Felix's friend group, started the year as total best friends. Then, one day, for reasons that no one you know has been able to figure out, everything turned into a sort of unspoken competition between them. It's such an odd dynamic, you and Farleigh have to talk about it every time there's an update.

"What?" You set your arms over your textbook, leaning forward to better listen. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"You wanted to read organic bio."

Farleigh knows exactly what he's doing. He sat on this piece of information and only dropped it when it became convenient to have something worth saying. "You knew before I said that." You turn in your seat to look over at Felix. "Did you know?"

"I spent the entire night with you," he says, "I know what you know."

Yeah, you and Felix were particularly invested in your own world the last time you went out together. The two of you spent most of the night trying drink combinations you'd normally never get, Felix laughing as your negative reactions grew more theatrical as the night went on. "Well, you're not very invested."

It's not an accusation. You know Felix well enough to know that he's rarely particularly interested in most gossip. A part of it might come from the fact that everyone goes out of their way to present themselves in certain ways when around Felix. Rumors about palpable passive aggression seem a lot less real when the people the rumors are about are constantly trying to gloss over any imperfections in his presence.

"You two are too invested." He turns his head to look at you, a small smile playing at his lips. "You only get along when you're gossiping."

You straighten, lifting an arm off of the table to poke Felix's arm. "We all need hobbies." You then turn your head forward to look at Farleigh, "Okay, tell me everything and do it in less than 5 minutes, or I'm not going to go back to studying."

Farleigh's eyes briefly drop towards the textbook in front of you. "You worry too much." The way he says it feels less concerned and more like an observation of something he finds grating. "We all know you're going to end up at John Hopkins." It lacks any type of inflection. It feels like fact. An inevitability.

Graduate school is currently a foreign, distant concept, and you'd like to keep it that way. You're not sure why, but picturing your future education isn't as easy as you had hoped it would be. It's as if there's some kind of mental wall blocking your ability to connect with the next step in becoming a doctor, when all your classes will revolve around the subjects you don't love and you'll have to dissect and watch more surgeries than ever.

You tap our fingers against the wooden surface in front of you. You're not sure what the right kind of response to this type of thing is. "Uh--realistically, John Hopkins is far from everyone I know, and I don't think Felix would like Maryland, so..."

Farleigh raises an eyebrow as he finally sets down your highlighter. "You're factoring in Felix?" The question is still registering as Farleigh gestures in Felix's direction. "You want to live with him?"

"Yeah." While a lot of your future is blurry in your mind, Felix is clear, certain. "Yeah, he's my soulmate."

Farleigh's eyes widen slightly at the candidness of your admission. It didn't feel that heavy when you said it. There are a lot of ways for someone to be your soulmate.

"You want to--to live together after this?" You turn your neck to look over at Felix. He's already facing you, but his eyes are focused on his lap. "Like with me?"

"Yeah..." You admit again as you pull your hands towards you. Maybe you shouldn't have said anything without thinking. "Do you not want to live with me?"

"No, I do," he forces out the words quickly, his gaze briefly falling towards you. "I didn't realize you were--" He clears his throat, forcing himself to straighten. "Soulmate." Felix's hand reaches for the underside of your chair, pulling you towards him with no warning. "I'm your soulmate."

You're never speaking without thinking again. "There are a lot of ways to be someone's soulmate, so don't start."

His fingers move up the edge of the chair before finding your knee. He's beaming. "'M not starting anything."

----

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