#angular material

[jcmarchi]

3 Questions: Evidence for planetary formation through gravitational instability

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/3-questions-evidence-for-planetary-formation-through-gravitational-instability/

3 Questions: Evidence for planetary formation through gravitational instability

Exoplanets form in protoplanetary disks, a collection of space dust and gas orbiting a star. The leading theory of planetary formation, called core accretion, occurs when grains of dust in the disk collect and grow to form a planetary core, like a snowball rolling downhill. Once it has a strong enough gravitational pull, other material collapses around it to form the atmosphere.

A secondary theory of planetary formation is gravitational collapse. In this scenario, the disk itself becomes gravitationally unstable and collapses to form the planet, like snow being plowed into a pile. This process requires the disk to be massive, and until recently there were no known viable candidates to observe; previous research had detected the snow pile, but not what made it.

But in a new paper published today in Nature, MIT Kerr-McGee Career Development Professor Richard Teague and his colleagues report evidence that the movement of the gas surrounding the star AB Aurigae behaves as one would expect in a gravitationally unstable disk, matching numerical predictions. Their finding is akin to detecting the snowplow that made the pile. This indicates that gravitational collapse is a viable method of planetary formation. Here, Teague, who studies the formation of planetary systems in MIT’s Department of Earth, Atmospheric and Planetary Sciences (EAPS), answers a few questions about the new work.

Q: What made the AB Aurigae system a good candidate for observation?

A: There have been plenty of observations that have suggested some interesting dynamics going on the system. Groups have seen spiral arms within the disk; people have found hot spots, which some groups have interpreted as a planet; others have explained as some other instability. But it was really a disk that we knew there was lots of interesting motions going on. The data that we had previously was enough to see that it was interesting, but not really good enough to detail what was going on.

Q: What is gravitational instability when it comes to protoplanetary disks?

A: Gravitational instabilities are where the gravity from the disk itself is strong enough to perturb motions within the disk. Usually, we assume that the gravitational potential is dominated by the central star, which is the case when the mass of the disk is less than 10 percent of the stellar mass (which is most of the time). When the disk mass gets too large, gravitational potential will affect it in different ways and drive these very large spiral arms in the disk. These can have lots of different effects: They can trap the gas, they can heat it up, they can allow for angular momentum to be transported very rapidly within the disk. If it’s unstable, the disk can fragment and collapse directly to form a planet in an incredibly short period of time. Rather than the tens of thousands of years that it would take for a core accretion to happen, this would happen at a fraction of that time.

Q: How does this discovery challenge conventional wisdom around planetary formation?

A: It shows that this alternative path of forming planets via direct collapse is a way that we can form planets. This is particularly important because we’re finding more and more evidence of very large planets — say, Jupiter mass or larger — that are sitting very far away from their star. Those sorts of planets are incredibly hard to form with core accretion, because you typically need them close to the star where things happen quickly. So to form something so massive, so far away from the star is a real challenge. If we’re able to show that there are sources that are massive enough that they’re gravitationally unstable, this solves that problem. It’s a way that perhaps newer systems can be formed, because they’ve always been a bit of a challenge to understand how they came about with core accretion.

[agarthanguide]

Have I ever shown you guys these very early Laudna sketches?

My instinct was very angular and sculptural with Laudna (code name Noir). Marisha moved more towards a broken doll kind of look, with wide eyes and a broken neck. Then again- I didn’t know about the broken neck! I figured it out when the fandom figured it out.

I also remember Marisha asking for a break in her skirt with crochet panes and I was legitimately worried that I wouldn’t be able to draw crochet lol. I concentrated hard at leveling up on fabrics and materials in my time with the Bells Hells. I think that effort paid off- it’s one of my favorite elements of character design, now.

[thick-monster-thighs]

Warlord Yautja/Reader; An Act of Rebellion

Title: An Act of Rebellion Rating: Explicit Fandom: Predator: Killer of Killers Ship: Warlord Predator/Grendel King (Male Yautja) x AFAB!Reader Warnings: Non/Dubcon, captivity, canon typical violence Author Note: This is the first third of this fic. The whole work can be read on AO3! Summary: You are one of the few chosen by the Yautja to fight for their entertainment. Before you are taken to the arena, however, you catch the attention of the Warlord. Fighting back seems like a good idea at first - until he effortlessly turns the tables and demonstrates his power and control over you.

You spit onto the floor, releasing a mixture of saliva and old blood from your aching mouth. Your head throbs as if it had been slammed repeatedly against the metal wall of the room, even though you only fell out of the capsule holding you. A dull pain radiates from your hip, knee, and left hand—the parts of your body that broke your fall.

Who comes up with such nonsense as a floating cryo capsule?!

Dizziness makes the entire room dance and spin around you, causing deep, oppressive nausea. You have to muster all your willpower not to vomit on the cold floor beneath you.

"Fuck..." Blinking against the dizziness helps, if only a little. Don't throw up. Luckily, after a few seconds, your vision slowly becomes clearer. And your throat stops itching, mouth stops producing extra saliva.

Your weak knees can barely hold the weight of your own body. Cold muscles scream in silent agony, trembling and shaking as they threaten to give way. The cryo capsule you're pulling yourself up on is technology your foggy brain doesn't quite recognize. It's certainly not a Weyland-Yutani pod. Its rough, angular design is made for beings larger than humans. It's alien technology, an alien ship.

What's the last thing you remember?

It takes a moment for your brain to search for memories. The fog is thick, hiding what brought you to this creepy room lit only by narrow red lamps on the walls. The floor is cold. You hear the roar of an engine that doesn't belong to one of the company's large haulers. The vibrations in the material of this ship are more penetrating, reaching into your bones. Weyland-Yutani ships sound different. They sound hollow and somehow... cheaper. Their ships sound like cost-cutting measures and a willingness to lose entire crews if it means saving a little money.

This is not a human ship. Its high-quality engine emits a deep growl that resonates in your chest like a steady purr. A purring monster made of metal, on its way to who-knows-where. You gasp for air as your brain finally locates the missing memory in the darkness. The Karattera. The strange cargo the company wanted to be transported to one of the research facilities back home. The crash on Vokila-2. And the black creatures that wreaked havoc. As this tidal wave of memories washes over you, accompanied by the lingering smell of blood, a trembling sob escapes you.

It's a sound as unstoppable as it is desperate. There are no tears, just the realization that the entire crew of the Karattera is dead. Just like the mining company team on the planet. You remember killing three of those black, fast beasts with long skulls using the Vokila-2 station's trash compactor. You heard the sound of bones breaking, of monsters screaming out in agony, of acid eating through metal - and then you sensed movement behind you, followed by a click and a growl. And then? Nothing. Only the floating emptiness remains, waking up in the cryo capsule with the stale taste of blood in your mouth. With trembling hands, you touch the back of your head, where there should be a wound because you were knocked down - or were you? It's the obvious conclusion to the blackout, to the lack of memories, but there's nothing there. Just a small bump that is hardly worth mentioning. The unanswered questions pile up in your stomach like a bunch of needles. What the hell is going on here?!

The door opens with a hiss. Every muscle in your body tenses in panic when you see the huge figure in the hallway. Ah, fuck.

It's a Yautja.

Rumors about these warriors - as fearless as they are brutal - have spread to the farthest corners of the company's colonies. People whisper on the freighters that these massive warriors are monsters who kill without mercy, whether with blades, plasma cannons, or their bare hands. They hunt for fun, pleasure, and the thrill of success. If that's true, then you're either a trophy or their afternoon entertainment. Double fuck. The Yautja makes harsh growling noises - it's a command, that much is clear. Given the situation, move your ass is the only logical conclusion. He's coming to get you. But why? And to where? With your legs trembling from the long, cold sleep, you stagger toward the door, trying not to appear threatening. Supposedly, the Yautja don't attack defenseless people: They don't attack the unarmed, the sick, children, or pregnant women. Hopefully, there's some truth to these rumors because you don't want to end up on the wrong end of that huge spear he's holding. Nevertheless, your pride demands that you lift your chin and walk as upright as possible. You make smooth movements despite the jelly knees. Don't appear threatening, but don't appear easy prey either. This phrase echoes in your brain over and over again like a mantra or a prayer to reason. The chance of survival is probably slim, but not zero. If it happens, it happens. At least take one of these bastards with you. This attitude was helpful when the black alien beasts overran the Karattera and Vokila-2. It kept you alive and gave you the courage to fight back. Maybe it'll save your out of luck ass again. The spaceship's corridor is long and empty. Several doors lead to other rooms, but they are locked, and you can't peek inside any of them. A rough, deep rumbling sounds from somewhere. It's an animalistic roar that echoes off the ship's walls until it becomes a distorted sound of rage. Your heart skips a beat in despair. Getting out of here alive is going to be difficult.

Suddenly, the Yautja grabs you with an incredibly strong grip. Before you can dodge his hand, the cold of the walls and floor wraps around your neck. There's a click, and something heavy hangs around your neck, pulling you slightly down. The weight and the realization what it is sends hot rage shooting through your head.

A fucking collar!  

"Hey, what?!" Your angry hiss is drowned out by the mocking growls and clicks of your opponent, who seems to be thoroughly enjoying your expression of stupor. Trembling, weak human fingers pull at the metal holding your neck like an iron grip of death. But the collar won't come off; it just rubs uncomfortably against your sensitive skin. With a fiery gaze, you look up at the Yautja, nodding slightly and twitching your shoulder in a demanding manner. "What is this? What's going on here?! Am I your prisoner?" The collar is beeping almost audibly, making you increasingly aggressive. Like a fucking time bomb around the neck. The Yautja raises and lowers his chest with a deep, flat growl and lets out a snort. Mocking and amused. Then, he pushes you toward the end of the corridor to get you moving. Apparently, there's a schedule here because he pushes you again, urging you to pick up the pace.

The corridor itself is long with a floor of metal grates that echo your footsteps. It leads to another corridor, then another, and finally, a last one that is significantly wider and shorter than the rest. This cursed ship is a labyrinth and must be enormous. How are you supposed to get out of here? Hide in a ventilation shaft if you can escape at all. And then what? Steal a rescue pod and drift off into nothingness? Honestly, the options don't look good.

"C'jit, this one's particularly unimpressive." Another Yautja approaches you and your guide. He's armed with a long spear as well, though he has a much more relaxed demeanor than the guy who's been pushing you around. The loud hissing of a door at the other end of the hallway drowns out the words whispered into your ear by the collar. It's a translation of the warriors' language. Granted, it's useful that this thing around your neck acts as a translator, though that's definitely not its main function. It's probably more like... a shock collar. Or a real bomb. Oh god, please don't let it be a bomb. The hissing of the double doors announces the arrival of more inhabitants of this ship. Heavy footsteps thunder on the grated floor, sending vibrations through your whole body until the inside of your ears starts to hurt. And the closer the footsteps come, the faster your heart beats. Three. Two guards and a monster that can only be described as such emerge from the gloom of the dimly lit corridor. The two guards stop and lower their heads as the third emerges from the dimly lit corridor.

Oh man... The newly arrived Yautja is massive. The chances of making it out alive are closing in on zero.  

His stature easily surpasses that of the others of his kind, and his cloak of bones and spines makes him look even bigger, more powerful, and more terrifying. The vertebrae protruding from his shoulders and upper back are a stark, ominous warning not to mess with this specimen, a warning reinforced when the other two Yautja take a subtle step back as he glances at them.

The urge to look away is so strong that your neck muscles tense up. However, looking away now would be a sign of weakness, and weakness is something you can't afford right now. These people crush the weak like bugs between their giant hands, amused by emotions like fear and terror. And yes, of course you're afraid. It would be stupid not to be. A few deep breaths, though, allow you to think somewhat logically. You clench that fear into a tight little knot below your diaphragm and think back to the mantra:

If it happens, it happens. At least take one of those bastards with you.

So, you straighten your back, pull your shoulders back, and stare stubbornly ahead.

>>> Continue on AO3

[sagistrology]

𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐲,

𝐩𝐭 𝐈𝐈𝐈

(the following observations are kept general)

♱ cardinals breaking free from obligation, w. firm boundaries operating from the objective. cross them and you’re out. less reliant on emotion, their virtue is gone (pluto in aquarius).

♱ lilith in pisces or twelfth house in composite; getting lost in a ‘trance’, deluded perception of time. devotion and surrender. it's about healing and grieving simultaneously. no rationality, blurred boundaries.

♱ neptune conjunct ascendant can attract obsession. wired differently, connected to the immaterial. can come with them being oblivious to their appearance and vastness because it feels 'innate', very elusive and ethereal (not being attached to an identity, which draws people in). cleansing and protection are essential, both physically and mentally.

♱ def. psychic affinities, being blind to 'obsessiveness', heightened intuition. will dream, hear, see, or feel deception while the material opposes it. can be paradoxical. they often play with variations of the 'ego'.

♱ eleventh house venus; they require adrenaline, intelligence, someone unpredictable, a conversationalist. they're cool and 'aloof' when they're bored. contrary to their demeanour, they crave connection when a) stimulated, and b) intrigued. focus on the mental, blunt, confrontational (reasonably so), very objective. def. will tease you, playful.

♱ they don't want to be restricted, but craved. yearn from a distance if deemed necessary. can separate intimacy from emotion. when there's a mental and emotional connection? best believe, they will tell you.

♱ angular houses function as one's identity, and are more 'accessible', since the energies are turned outward. can be perceived as heavier due to visibility. while this has its perks, the facetted consequences of being 'known' have to be considered too.

♱ w. visibility comes vibrancy, hence envy and projection. people wanting pieces of that power. personal planets and stelliums in these houses (first, fourth, seventh, tenth) call for protection and selectiveness. what does light attract?

𝜗𝜚 part II

[sabertoothwalrus]

your character designs are incredible! do you keep anything/any thought processes in mind as you draw fanart vs how you draw ocs?

OOOOOO what a fun question...

I'd say my general thought process about how to build a new character-- figuring out who they are and what they do and what they're like-- is all pretty much the same across the board. The main difference between designing fan characters vs original characters is how I answer those sorts of questions.

For original characters, it can be almost overwhelming because I get to choose everything. I can make everything perfectly suited to my own tastes, except I have a broad range of things I like, and my tastes change constantly FJHFHD so depending on the project, choosing a more specific direction helps narrow things down.

Here's some old ocs I redrew recently. They're from an old story I'm not planning on revisiting, but it was about an art student, her little brother, and some grim reapers. Can you tell who is who?

I wanted the alive characters to have a lot of Opposites from the reapers. Warm vs Cool colors. Round vs Angular shapes. I wanted the reapers to look skeletal and sickly looking, and it was important that they all had some kind of hood. They needed to wear black & grey, but their colors still needed to be interesting, so they're all tinted with a color (one is sort-of blue, one is sort-of red, one is sort-of purple).

The story is more serious, so it felt appropriate that the characters were more realistically proportioned compared to some of the cartoonier designs I tend to do. They're still heavily stylized, and I tried to push myself to go harder on the shape language and Appeal™.

For fan characters, it's actually a lot of fun because so much of the work has been done for you. The more source material you have to work with, the less you have to come up with.

So, an example I'm going to use is Hugh Dini, a character I came up with as part of a fan concept for a new entry in the Ace Attorney series.

Phoenix Wright's daughter, Trucy, is a magician. She was 17 in her last appearance, and my fan concept takes place 7 years later, so she'd be 24. I decided she'd have a boyfriend who is also her assistant, and went from there.

I knew Hugh was going to be a defendant, which according to Ace Attorney rules means that he'd be falsely accused of murder. I needed to create a guy who was sympathetic, someone that you'd WANT to help prove his innocence.

What I did was reference existing characters from the games who fit similar archetypes and took a lot of design cues from them. I also referenced characters like Fukuo from Kiki's Delivery Service, who is a delightful himbo wifeguy that looks a little intimidating but is actually just kinda shy. And then I looked at actual photos of stage magician costumes for additional inspiration. THEN I go back to the source material to compare design details I want to add (ex, Hugh's high collar, his cuffs, the collar, the cape being turned into fringe on his jacket) and see if it already exists somewhere. No point in reinventing the wheel if I don't need to!

I wanted him to be like a "sexy magician's assistant", which I thought was a funny contrast to his restrained demeanor. He needed to be flashy, but not TOO flashy that he'd upstage Trucy. And additionally, since this is a game series where the characters are mostly seen from the waist up, I tried to keep his most interesting details in the top half of his design (but honestly in hindsight, I could have given him more. like Zak Gramarye's thigh-strap belt bag, perhaps).

Some other things I like to do when creating fan designs is to "roleplay" being the designers of the source material. If concept art is available, I reference that. I like to find the design quirks the character designers favor, and use them to make my own designs more convincing. If I'm designing something for, say, a european tv show that came out in 2005, I'd refer to the fashion and design tendencies that were most prevalent in the culture then, because that's what the actual character designers would have been most inspired by. But I'm not perfect, I'm gonna have the biases of an american lesbian living in 2025 no matter how hard I try LMAO

Hopefully I was able to answer your question!

[sensualnoiree]

wealth indicators in astrology

The 2nd House and its Ruler The 2nd house rules personal wealth, income, possessions, and material resources. A well-placed ruler of the 2nd house (in dignified signs or making favorable aspects) can signify strong potential for financial success. Wealth in this house is not just about material resources, but also about how we value ourselves, our talents, and our ability to manifest abundance through self-worth.

Jupiter and Venus (Benefics) in Key Positions Jupiter represents expansion, luck, and abundance, while Venus governs pleasure, wealth, and beauty. Their placement in angular houses (1st, 4th, 7th, 10th) or making harmonious aspects (trines and sextiles) can indicate financial prosperity. Jupiter and Venus bring grace and fortune, but their spiritual lesson often revolves around generosity and the willingness to share abundance. Wealth is also cultivated through relationships and faith in higher principles.

The 8th House and its Ruler The 8th house deals with shared resources, investments, inheritance, and other people's money. A strong 8th house or a well-placed ruler can suggest gains through partnerships, inheritance, or financial support from others. Wealth from the 8th house comes through deep, transformative experiences and often asks for a surrender of control. It's the wealth of vulnerability and trust, leading to shared material or emotional resources.

Strong Earth Sign Placements (Taurus, Virgo, Capricorn) Earth signs are practical and grounded, making them naturally inclined toward building wealth through hard work, perseverance, and material stability. Earth placements teach the lessons of patience, discipline, and respect for the physical world. Wealth is accumulated over time through effort and practical application, but it also reflects our connection to the body and the material environment.

Pluto and Transformation of Wealth Pluto is often associated with power, control, and transformation. When in aspect to the 2nd or 8th house or their rulers, Pluto can signify major transformations in one’s financial situation—often through crises or periods of intense regeneration. Pluto teaches that true wealth is the result of deep inner transformation. Pluto forces us to face our attachments to material security and transforms our relationship to wealth through cycles of death and rebirth.

North Node in the 2nd or 8th House The North Node in the 2nd or 8th house suggests that the soul’s evolutionary journey involves learning how to master finances, resources, and self-worth. The North Node points to the soul’s spiritual work. Wealth accumulated in these areas is not just about money, but about understanding one’s true purpose and karmic lessons related to material possessions.

Saturn in the 2nd or 10th House Saturn represents discipline, structure, and long-term success. In the 2nd or 10th house, it often points to delayed but enduring financial stability through consistent effort and hard work. Saturn teaches us that wealth is earned through time and dedication. It can also represent karmic lessons around financial responsibility and the maturation process necessary for true success.

Venus-Jupiter Aspects Harmonious aspects between Venus and Jupiter are considered one of the best indicators of financial prosperity, as these are the two most beneficial planets. While this aspect can indicate material wealth, it also highlights spiritual abundance and the capacity for joy, love, and appreciation of life’s pleasures. It's a reminder that wealth is more than money—it's the richness of life.

MC (Midheaven) and Career-Related Indicators The MC, 10th house, and its ruler are tied to one’s public image, career, and long-term achievements. Favorable planets in the 10th or supportive aspects to the MC can point to career success and financial gain. Success comes through aligning with one's higher calling and being of service. True wealth is found in fulfilling a vocation that resonates with one's spiritual purpose.

Favorable Aspects between the 2nd and 10th Houses Harmonious connections between the 2nd and 10th houses or their rulers can signify the ability to generate wealth through career pursuits. Career and personal values must align for wealth to be truly sustainable. There’s a spiritual dimension to finding purpose in work that also brings material rewards.

follow for more astro insights like this and head on over to @quenysefields or my etsy --> sensualnoiree to grab my new astrology guidebook on reading your own natal chart :)

[sadhours]

quit acting like a puppy • part one

BILLY HARGROVE x F!READER

masterlist

cw: 18+ minors dni, smut, dirty talk, rough sex, spitting, oral (m & f receiving), slapping, name calling, p in v, unprotected, friends with benefits, enemies (?) to lovers, pining

summary: you hook up with Billy and it’s great but you’re not looking for anything serious. but he can’t get enough of you.

Your fingertips move over his abs, drunken eyes focused on the way they flex and as they glance up, you catch a wicked smirk and darkened blue eyes staring back at you.

“C’mon, babe,” he purrs, “go ahead and get your fill before I keep them hands busy.”

In your intoxicated state, his words work but if you were just a smidge more sober, you’d cringe at them. You feel down his hip bones, down where his muscles point down to the thing in his pants he was bragging about back at the bar, the reason you’re even at his apartment in the first place. Sure the rest of him is gorgeous, but he talked a big game about his uh, endowment.

You drop to your knees, rolling your eyes at his comment before licking at the skin right above the waistband of his jeans. He loses a bit of composure from it and the way you scratch manicured nails down the sides of him. Makes a pretty sound that inflates your ego and has you sucking bruises against his golden skin. He shaved recently, the hairs barely there and you think it makes him more sensitive. Billy cards his fingers through your hair, tugs at the roots and chuckles out a breathy, “Guess your tongue works, too.”

“Oh, my tongue works. You’ll see,” you tell him confidently, licking a broad stroke up his abs as you unbutton his Levi’s and tug them down around his ankles.

You move down to mouth his hard on over his briefs and Billy groans. You glance up to catch his head tilting back with pleasure and you’ve barely even started, it makes you smirk against him. Focusing on the head, your hand moves to cup his balls and you’re quick at work making the fabric of his briefs soaked where his tip is. Sucking and licking. When you squeeze Billy’s balls, he lets out a louder noise and his hips jerk forward as he pulls on your hair. You can taste the saltiness of his precum seeping through the material and you hum happily against him. Billy attempts to shove your face against his crotch harder but you push on his thighs, pulling away from him.

“Sit,” you tell him, nodding to his bed, “Take them off.”

As Billy steps back, he pushes his briefs down to his ankles and kicks them off along with his jeans. Sits on the bed, palms on the sheets and spreads his legs for you. It’s easy to scoot between his feet, smoothing your hands up his thighs and scratching down them as you admire his cock and balls. He’s thick, mushroom tip shaped perfectly and it’s pink, leaking out the slit and dripping down the shaft. His balls are heavy but tight, sit pretty on the sheets and you think you’ll start with them. A quick glance up to make sure his eyes are on you before you lean down and graze your lips against his sack, feeling the weight of his cock against your face.

“Christ,” he breathes out, watching you intently, “you’re a fucking nymph, aren’t ya?”

You reply by licking at his balls, looking up at him with wide eyes. Nose nudging his shaft with your motions. The dude has stars in his eyes. You’ve had plenty of experience in this department but you’re determined to impress him because he might be the hottest one on the roster. You take the time to admire him, sculpted muscles corded in his arms and chest that lead up to a strong neck and jaw, surrounded by an overgrown curly blonde mullet. He’s got stubble but it’s thicker above his soft, pink tinted lips. Sharp cupids bow to match his angular cheekbones. Soft and adorable button nose that leads up to strong brows. Matched with the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen and some seriously luscious and curly dark eyelashes. The guys a natural blonde, as his pubes prove but his brows and lashes are dark. Like God was looking out for him.

“You’re fucking hot,” you admit as you pull away from his balls and Billy scoffs, all condescending but it’s cut short when you grab hold of his cock, tight at the base of him as you blink up at him. “But you know that. I don’t need to tell you.”

“You can tell me,” he gasps, abs flexing from the pleasure shooting up his body. “I like hearing it from a pretty girl like you.”

You pout, tilting your head as you raise up on your knees. “Just pretty?” You gather all the spit in your mouth you can and let it fall from your lips onto his tip, watching as it drips down the edge of his tip, the side of his shaft and to your fist wrapped around him.

“Hot, fucking— so hot,” he gasps, eyebrows furrowing, “Sexiest fucking woman I’ve ever seen.”

You giggle, “That’s more like it!” You stick your tongue out and slap the head of his cock against it, keep your eyes locked on his as you lick the most sensitive bit like an ice cream cone. He looks submissive in this moment but everything leading up to this tells you that’s out of place for him. He’s the one in control during moments like this. But you can’t have that. His lips are parted as he stares down at you, eyes all glassy. He doesn’t whine but he breathes heavy, squeezes the sheets in his fists as his muscles tighten. He’s trying not to thrust up at your face. Like a good boy. And you haven’t even told him.

Wrapping your lips around the tip, you sink down slowly. As slow as you can, taking breaks to circle him with your tongue and you haven’t moved your fingers yet, they’re still firmly holding on to the base of him. As you watch him, his eyes roll back before his lids flutter shut. There’s a goal here. Make this beautiful man fall apart. You think you have a talent. Once you get him as deep as you can, nose hitting the curly blonde hair, you exhale out of your nose and focus on not gagging. He’s deep though, poking the back of your throat and it’s not exactly comfortable but the sound Billy illicites makes it all worth it. Voice wrecked with the loud moan that pours from him. His thighs tense under your palm. You pull up, but not off entirely, stopping when just the tip is in and you suck, hard. Sinking back down and repeating the motion a couple of times. Billy’s large hands fly into your hair, determined to set the pace but you have other plans. If he doesn’t push your head down, you suck him harder and start stroking whatever isn’t in your mouth.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He spits out, “Wait— Jesus, slow down.” His voice is breathy and spent, “Don’t wanna cum yet.”

You pull off with a loud pop, string of saliva still connecting your lips to his cock, “Isn’t that the point of this?”

“Gotta feel your pussy before I cum,” he chokes out. “But, holy fuck, you’re good at that.”

“Thanks,” you grin, like he complimented you on a softball pitch and not your dick sucking.

You stand then, still between his feet as you begin to pull your dress up and over your head. Billy’s eyes scan your body and he still has this like, starstruck look on his face. It’s flattering, sure but you’re in your head. The guy is way too attractive to look at you like that. Even if you almost made him cum in record time with your mouth.

He sits up and gets his hands on your hips, pulls you closer and gets his mouth on your tits. Licks at the hardened buds, sucks one and moves his hand to squeeze the other breast. It feels good, his mouth is warm and determined and you grab onto his shoulders. Let him mouth at you for a bit, moaning as you look down to watch him.

“That feels really good,” you tell him, voice heightened with arousal.

“Yeah?” He asks around your nipple, moving his hand down to cup your heat over your thong. Rubs against your cunt with firm and rough fingers. Makes you gasp and lean your hips forward into the touch.

“Yeah,” you whine.

Billy smirks, “Sucking my cock made you so wet. Can feel how soaked you are.”

Damnit. The cocky bastard is back but it feels too good to stop him. Your hands lace through his curls, mouth agape as you look down at him. Watch as he licks and sucks on your chest while his fingers easily find your clit and rub circles against the bundle of nerves over the sticky material of your lace underwear. Billy has thick fingers. You wanna feel them without the underwear.

“Take them off, wanna feel you,” you whisper.

He pulls back with a smile, pushes you a step back and leans down. Bites on the strap of your underwear and drags it down with his teeth. It’s the hottest fucking thing you’ve ever seen. He uses his hands to help get them the rest of the way off and then slides them up to grab handfuls of your ass, squeezing the flesh and biting the skin of your hipbone. You whimper, staring down at him with desire. He spanks you, rough and abrupt.

“Need you to sit on my face, pretty girl,” he tells you, licks against your hipbone before spanking you one time and then lays back, pulling you with him. You grab hold of his jaw once you’re straddling him, feeling his shaft against your folds and you crash your lips into his. Billy kisses filthy. All sloppy. Tongue invading your mouth, dragging against your teeth, tongue and roof of your mouth. His hands easily find your ass again, kneading at the fat as he rolls his hips up. His cock catches against your clit and you moan into his mouth.

“I meant it,” he mumbles against your lips, “Gotta taste you. C’mon, sit that pretty pussy on my face.”

You don’t hesitate, kissing him one more time before moving up. Once your pussy is hovering his mouth, he grabs the tops of your thighs and pulls you down on him. Wet, hot mouth meeting your cunt. He moans into it and then licks through your folds. Prods his tongue at your hole and moves it back up. You gasp, hands flat on the mattress to keep yourself upright. His tongue meets your clit, flat and broad and your hips roll on their volition. And before you know it, you’re riding Billy’s face. Setting the pace, grinding down on his tongue as you focus on finding your climax. Using his mouth completely. His stubble causes some friction but you like it, humping against Billy’s face as you’re totally lost in chasing your orgasm. It’s almost pathetic how quickly you’re cumming.

Coating his face in your juices as you cry out, body jerking as the orgasm crashes through you.

“Fuuuuck!”

Billy doesn’t let up, continues lapping at your sensitive cunt as his fingers dig into the flesh of your thighs. Moans with you as you climax. Gives you a minute before he’s rolling over, pushing you on your back and slapping your pussy. Looks at you with these frenzied eyes and easily slips two fingers inside of your cunt. You cry out, overstimulated but ready to go again as he pumps his fingers in and out of your soaking hole. Your back arches, vision blurry as your eyes prick from tears. It’s almost too much, almost.

“Such a good girl,” he coos from above you, lips and chin shiny from your juices. Looks even prettier like that.

“Fuck,” you curse, eyes crossing slightly as he fucks you deep and hard with his thick digits. Then he grabs your jaw with his free hand, forcing your mouth open as he looms over you. Has this wicked, borderline unhinged look which shouldn’t turn you on like it does. And then the fucker spits in your mouth before licking against your tongue and kissing you as filthy as humanly possible. Your eyes roll back, lids fluttering shut as you let him have control. Taking the brutal thrusts of his fingers and the intrusion of his tongue that tastes like your pussy,

Is Billy the first man to make you cum before he does? Yeah, but you’re not keen on focusing on that right now because the way it fills your stomach with butterflies is making you a bit sick.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he babbles out as he curls his fingers up, “Look like a fucking dream, taking my fingers like a good little slut.”

Motherfuckers unlocked a kink and you’re too far gone to hide it. Crying out and bucking your hips up at him, whimpering pathetically as you nod.

“Oh,” he smirks, voice dark, “You like being called a slut, don’t you? S’that get you going? ‘Cause you know it’s true. Know that you’re a dirty fucking slut, don’t ya?”

“Yes,” you pant, legs shaking as he drills his fingers in and out of your obscenely dripping cunt.

“Say it,” he growls, face so close to yours. “Tell me you’re a dirty slut.”

“I’m a dirty slut,” you gasp, “Fuck me like the fucking whore I am, Billy.”

He bites his lip as he smirks, gripping your face before spitting on it. Barely any of it lands in your mouth and he smooths his hand over your face, smearing your makeup with it before he slaps you. “Want me to show you what a desperate, dirty whore you are?”

“Please,” you beg, “Please, pretty please!”

He pulls his fingers from you abruptly, you feel empty so you whimper and wiggle your hips. He smacks hard against your pussy, then spits down on it and grips his cock, spreads the saliva as he drags his tip through your folds. Slaps the tip against your clit, making your body jerk as your back arches and you squeal.

“Think such a desperate slut deserves my cock?” he pouts, shaking the head of his cock against your clit which sends the most incredible shockwaves through your body.

“Yes, yes,” you pant, “I need it. I’m such a slut, I need it, need your cock.”

He laughs, a soft exhale that’s cruel but he’s looking down at you fondly. Even strokes your cheekbone with his thumb, drags it down to the corner of your lips and you move to lick his fingertip. Suck it into your mouth and look at him desperately. He groans softly, the tip of his cock slipping down to rub circles against your entrance. You hum needy around his thumb, hands moving up to grab hold of his wrist as you wiggle your hips, trying to maneuver his cock inside you.

“You’re—- you’re something else, babygirl,” he says and his voice is deep and so sexy. “Think you’ve earned it,” he breathes out and slips inside you, eyelids fluttering shut as he feels your cunt suck his cock in. You inhale sharply with his thumb still pressed to your tongue. He sheathes deeper inside you, left hand still extended so you can suck on his thumb while his right grips your hip tightly. The head of his cock brushes against that sweet spongy spot deep inside you so tenderly, has your eyes cross before they roll back and you grip tighter on his wrist as you moan around his thumb.

Hookups aren’t like this. You know that. You’re usually bent over, so they aren’t looking at your face. You’re not typically drooling around their thumb while they fuck you missionary. This is good sex. Which you’ve had but not… not this good. Never so intense and intimate. You get that uncomfortable feeling in your tummy again until Billy reels his hips back and snaps forward harshly, deteriorating every thought in your head. He fucks you dumb, thrusts quick and deep. Spilling out moans and repeatedly telling you what a slut you are. Not much else to think about when you’re being fucked into oblivion.

You blink your eyes open, vision blurry for a beat before you’re met with the prettiest sight. Billy’s sweating, beads forming at his hairline and you move to feel down his back, sweat forming there too and it’s all gross and sticky and so fucking sexy. You gasp, lips parting but he doesn’t pull his thumb away. It’s still pressed to your tongue and he punches little, repetitive uh, uh, uh’s from you. The sound of your skin meeting, harsh slaps, fills the room. His cock is so thick, stretching your hole deliciously, and so long, massaging against your g-spot with every stroke. You feel ten times drunker and you know it’s from his cock, and not the shots shared at the bar. And you feel fucking dumb too.

“S’a good little slut for me,” he growls, eyes locked on your face which is kind of overwhelming but incredibly hot, “taking my cock so good. You my little princess, huh?”

That’s a new one, feels better than slut which surprises you. Has tears stinging at your eyes, making your mascara bleed as they roll down your cheeks. Billy takes his thumb out of your mouth to wipe them away, leans down to kiss you. Softer this time. Tongue just barely swiping across your lower lip. You cling to him, back arching as he thrusts particularly deep.

“Feel so good,” he keeps talking, lips dragging against your wet cheek. “So pretty for me.”

“B-Billy…” you stutter as you wrap your legs around your waist, which somehow has him even deeper inside you.

“Yeah,” he coos, brushing his nose against your cheekbone, “Feel nice? Can feel me so deep inside you, princess?”

“Billy,” you’re fucking stupid. All you can say is his name. And you’re not saying it. You’re whining it. “Billy… Billy… Billy…”

He hums, kisses your cheek, holds you steady as he drills into you, “I know.” God, this is so intimate. There’s a white, hot pleasure spreading over your nerves. Brings you to even more tears. It’d make you so sick if you weren’t so elated in euphoria. If this were any other hookup, you’d be panicked about the lack of condom. But you’re aching for Billy to cum inside you. Wanna feel it fill you up. Want to make him feel so good he cums before he has time to pull out. This has you tightening your legs around his waist. Heel digging into his ass as you arch your back.

The second climax hits you like a tidal wave. It’s unexpected, you don’t even realize you were close as it washes over you. You cry out his name, tears streaming down your cheeks as you writhe against him. Scratching down his back. Clinging to him, pulling him impossibly closer as your vision goes completely white. He smells good. It’s what you notice as you come back to reality, faces squished together at the cheeks and your nose is pressed up against his damp curls. Makes your orgasm drag out as you inhale deeply, shuddering a breath out as you gasp out sobs. It’s foreign to you. Crying from an orgasm but Billy doesn’t seem alarmed. Grabs hold your face and kisses you harshly as he thrusts quicker and deeper until his hips still and he spills his load against your fluttering walls. Groaning your name against your lips.

—

Turns out, the cocky bastard is a clingy one. As you were sneaking out the morning after, he woke up. Rolled over and sat up, rubbed his pretty eyes and blinked at you, “Ya gonna leave before breakfast?”

So you’d stayed. Made small talk. Told him where you work.

Three weeks later, there’s flowers being delivered to your office… for you. They’re pretty. Tropical flowers like you mentioned you liked. Your coworkers ask a million questions. While you remember the sex as being the best you’ve ever had, you’re not really looking for a boyfriend. The past handful of them never worked out, so why would Billy be any different. You’d been panicked for two weeks after the hook up because he came inside and you were praying that your period came early. And it came late. By two days which had you in a fucking frenzy. So you were relieved when it came but then came the flowers. You stared at them angrily as you typed away memos for your boss. You’re made that they made you blush. When you read the handwritten card, you wanted to puke.

Had the best night of my life with you. Would like a chance to properly woo you.

And his phone number.

You refused to call. You wouldn’t. A boyfriend wasn’t part of the plan. Dating casually wasn’t a part of your plan. Regardless of how incredible the sex was.

Boyfriends. Love. The whole thing made you bitter. There’s no way it’s happening.

A week passes, the flowers die and you throw them away. Then you’re finishing up a memo your boss asked you to type when there’s a knock on your door.

“Come in,” you call, not taking your eyes away from the typewriter.

“Hot shot, huh?” His voice has you jerking your head up and damnit, he looks handsome.

Tight Levi’s, motorcycle boots and a red button up, but only the last two buttons are done up. Tucked into his jeans. His hair is luscious. Blonde curls framing his face and a dangly earring in his ear. His skin just as golden as you remember, not that you’re trying to.

“Can I help you?” you can’t hide the disdain in your voice.

“Ouch,” he presses his hand to his bare chest, “That any way to treat a man who made you cum so hard you cried?”

Your eyes widen as you look at the door, “Keep your voice down. The women in this office have big ears and even bigger mouths. Don’t need anyone knowing the gritty details of my sex life.”

Billy kicks the door shut with his foot and then leans against it, “I was hoping I could take you out to lunch.”

“You were dreaming,” you smile at him, dripping in condescension.

“Sure was. What do ya say?” He steps closer to your desk, hand on his belt.

You sigh, lean back against your chair as you look at him, “You sent me flowers with your number, if I was interested, I would’ve called.”

Billy purses his lips and flattens his palms against your desk, leaning down as he says, “Thought maybe you’d be intimidated, so here I am, making the uh, third move.”

You blink at him in disbelief, “Don’t know how to take a hint, do ya?”

“I don’t need to bring up that you cried again, do I?”

“You just did.”

“Come to lunch with me,” he shrugs, “If you’re not feeling it afterwards, I’ll leave you alone.”

You chew on your lip as you think about it. It is a free lunch. And you skipped breakfast so you’re kind of starving. And okay, yeah, Billy looks good. He’s handsome but he’s more annoying than he is pretty.

“Fine. I’m hungry,” you sigh, “But I have to finish this memo, first.”

You go back to typing, trying to ignore the guy's eyes on you. You glance up to glare at him and he just chews his gum obnoxiously and smirks. “You’re insufferable,” you tell him.

He grins, eyes crinkling with it, “Thanks, toots. You are so fine in this uh, get up. Very professional yet very seductive.”

You sigh exaggeratedly, finishing the end of the memo before pulling the paper out of the typewriter. You grab your purse and usher his out the door, dropping by the front desk to hand the receptionist the memo.

“I’m going to lunch. Mr. Harrington wants this memo forwarded to the whole staff,” you tell her and ignore the way she eyes Billy up and down.

“Will do,” she smiles, “Have a fun lunch.”

“I won’t,” you reply with a sarcastic smile and head out the front doors, Billy close on your feet.

“Mr. Harrington?” He questions as he follows you to the parking lot, “Like Steve Harrington?”

“Yeah, his dads my boss,” you explain, “Where are you taking me to lunch?”

“Enzo’s?”

“You can afford that?” You tease as you stop in your tracks, tilting your head at him.

“Uh, yeah,” he looks shocked by that, hands shoving in his pockets, “I’m an electrician. Well, I do construction in general but right now, just an electrician.”

“I didn’t ask,” you roll your eyes as you walk to his annoyingly pretty car. A sports car fits him, though.

He rolls his eyes but opens the passenger door for you. You sink in and notice his car smells like cigarettes. He smokes? As he slides into the drivers side, he pulls a pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket and lights one up. And a cigarette sounds good right now so you make grabby hands and he hands it over before lighting another.

“You keep proving to be the woman of my dreams,” he says with dreamy eyes and you roll yours.

“Take me to lunch, loser.”

[teamfortressblr]

Team Fortress 2's concept art featured in The Art of Videogames (2007)

A transcription of the paragraphs shown can be found below.

Inspiration

"To both complement Team Fortress 2's exaggerated gameplay and differentiate ourselves from the modern photorealistic look of most other multiplayer action games, we chose to employ an art style inspired by early- to mid-20th-century commercial illustration alongside 1960s industrial design elements. Specifically, we drew inspirartion from the styles of commercial illustrators such as JC Leyendecker, Dean Cornwell and Norman Rockwell. These artists were known for illustrating characters using strong, distinctive silhouettes with emphasis on clothing folds, and they tended to use shading techniques which accentuated the internal shape of objects and characters while emphasising silhouettes with rim highlights rather than dark outlines. The nine character classes of Team Fortress 2 were designed to be visually distinct from one another. Even when viewed only in silhouette with no internal shading at all, the characters needed to be readily indeitifiable to players. For elements of the world associated with each of the two teams, blue and red, we defined specific contrasting properties to set them apart. While the red team's base tends to use warm colours, wooden materials and angular geometry, the blue team's base is composed of cool colours, industrial materials and orthogonal forms. We also deliberately avoided modelling the world in an overly complex or geometrically off-kilter manner, as this would add an unnecessary level of visual noise — not to mention memory-hungry vertices — to the scene. We found that keeping repetitive structures such as the bridge trusses, telephone poles or railroad ties to a minimum is preferable for our style, as conveying the impression of repetition in the space is more important than representing every detail explicitly. In general, the texture maps used on the 3D world are impressionistic, meaning that they are painterly and maintain a minimum level of visual noise. This is consistent with the style of painting used on background plates in many animated films, particularly those of Hayao Miyazaki, in whic broad brush strokes appear in perspective as if present in the 3D world rather than on the 2D image plane. Miyazaki also influenced the game's world and character colour palette." — Charlie Brown, project lead

Art and technology

"Valve is a goal-driven technology company, and game and visual design goals drove Team Fortress 2's technology requirements. Its unique look relies on artistic decisions made before the technology was implemented. For instance, a phong/rim-lighting shader was created specifically to help the characters 'pop' out of the environments. It removes detail in colour and then adds detail back in as highlights, giving the characters a stylised look that's simple yet sophisticated." — Charlie Brown

Bold outlines

"The specific characteristics we needed were mostly dictated by Team Fortress 2's gameplay. Foremost, we wanted players to be able to intuit each character's unique gameplay features at a glance. The Heavy Weapons character, for example, had to quickly convey strength, sturdiness, slowness, and the ability to pack a real wallop. To further aid in quick readability, each character class requires a bold, distinct silhouette shape." — Charlie Brown

[nullicaput]

firsts, seconds, and thirds. I

Pairings: Geum Seong-je x Reader, Wolf Keum x Reader

Tags: Minor College AU, Soulmates, Canon-Typical Violence, Language and Profanities, Seong-je being mentally unstable

Summary: In a world where soulmates exist, you found yourself rejecting yours when you learned who it was.

Word count: 3321

You woke up to your whole body feeling like it was being submerged into an ice bath, and you could not stop yourself from shivering. You inhaled through your mouth, but it only dried your saliva. With all of your willpower, you got off of your crappy bed and turned on the lights. You rummaged through the uppermost compartment of bedside table in search for medicine but found nothing.

"You've got to be kidding me." 

The shelf only had a small bottle of povidone iodine and bandages, which were not going to help you, and the nearest convenience store was a ten-minute-walk away from your; you had no other option aside from asking your neighbor.

He was far from being bad, if you were to be completely honest, but his smoking habits would be the death of you. Since the walls are made out of fiber cement board—therefore are thin—and there are holes at the bottom due to the material crumbling, smoke could just pass through the without any difficulty. To make it worse, you could smell the smoke at the balcony because he leaves his cigarette butts everywhere.

You were not sure if it were him that has that nasty habit of not throwing them into the bin like any normal person. What you were certain is that although he was a terrible neighbor at times, he indeed was one of the lesser evils. 

"Mask," you whispered repeatedly. 

You pulled the second compartment and picked up two face masks from their box. You wore them together and grabbed a jacket from your hanger cabinet. You also took your wallet with you lest he did not have any medicine to give. You were not cozy, but, at least, you were not trembling as hard as you did not too long ago.

You opened the door—you just realized that it was actually day.

Through your mask, you could smell the stench of cigarette smoke floating in the air. You coughed, and soon, that coughing fit of yours developed into wheezes. You closed your eyes in order to prevent your eyes from tearing up due to light sensitivity. You sniffled in a futile attempt to empty your mucus-filled sinuses, but nothing happened. You knocked on your neighbor's door, patiently waiting for the orange-haired guy to pop up and greet you. 

"Fuck ya need?"

You almost jumped the moment you heard those words, your mind becoming aware of your surroundings again. At the opposite side of the door stood a young man with slightly curly hair that had the same hue as a piece of purple topaz, handsome and angular face littered with bandages and bruises, belittling gray eyes behind a pair of tinted glasses successfully causing the words die down in your throat. Your poor heart drummed against your thoracic cage, and that chill dripped through the insides of your bones.

One. 

Two.

You shut your eyes the moment you felt a sneeze arriving; however, no sneeze came. 

Instead, without a warning, the skin of your lower stomach where your soulmate's first sentence was marked burned. Your body turned rigid; you thought you would burst into flames right there and then. It was scorchingly hot, and you could only describe the sensation as being dangerously close to an open fire.

"Ah," you gasped through clenched teeth.

What in the world?

Pressing the heel of your palm into your lower stomach, you stared back at him, looking for the possible reason for you to feel like this after he spoke those words.

He, as well, did not appear to know why. 

"You mute? What ya staring for?" 

One. 

Two. 

Before the third second has passed, Hwangmo finally showed himself.

"Hey, who's at the—oh, senior," Hwangmo said. 

Hwangmo, your underclassman and next-door neighbor, has been living in his apartment a year longer than you do. In such a rundown place filled with criminals and thugs, his presence was the reason you have always felt safe despite initially scaring the living daylights out of you. Although he looked very rugged and easy to displease, he was kind person to be around, making sure you were safe when he not working for his job, which he never mentioned being. You never bothered asking although it was strange that an eighteen year-old has a well-paying job even when he was only working once or twice a week; you have no time to worry about other's life when you could not even keep your own life together. 

"Mornin'."

You felt an itch along your throat, so you used your knuckle to massage the area. The movement helped you a little, but after a second or two, the itch only spread. 

"Sorry 'bout the smoke."

He threw a subtle glance at the purple-haired man, who was now staring you down like a nuisance disrupting his peace.

Ah, so he was the one who kept inhaling those cancer sticks like his life depended on it. 

"It's fine," you rasped, clearing your throat after. "Hwangwo, do you have any paracetamol?"

You tried to ignore the strange feeling that settled on your lower torso, yet it did not go away anytime soon. You also tried to ignore the other male's intent staring, yet it did not go away either. 

"I actually do have some. Ya stay there."

You nodded and let him leap to his medicine kit somewhere inside his apartment. You were then left with Hwangmo's companion while he leaned back and rested his whole body onto the doorframe rather menacingly.

You did not even dare to look his way again—something nagged you not to.

The orange-haired man returned shortly—thank goodness—and gave you a whole blister pack of paracetamol. When you tried to just pick one, he almost shoved it to you just so you would stop refusing his act of goodwill.

"Thank you." You weakly smiled through your mask. "I'll return the favor when I'm good as new."

Without a doubt, that guy Hwangmo was with was your other half.

You plan to keep your mouth pursed about it.

Men have always failed you in life. 

From your violent and infidelious father, to your brother who loved weaponizing his incompetence, to those random men who loved catcalling you when you were wearing your uniform and passing by during your walk to school—you grew up knowing the truth that men really were not worth any shit. They want to dominate you and make you subservient to their self-proclaimed legacy by either assaulting you with their fists, with their words, or sometimes—if not all the time—their eyes. They like you now, but within a split of a second, they would act like you just insulted their whole bloodline by saying no. 

They are simple-minded creatures, and that is why they are so threatening.

It was sickeningly funny that your supposed soulmate was no better.

Hwangmo, even without the knowledge of your connection with your soulmate, had the tendency to rant about the unfair treatment of your fated one, or who you later learned was Wolf. During his little complaint session, his tongue slipped about Wolf being inconsiderate and whatnot. He has also said although he admire his strength, he could not help but fear him and his unexplainable predilection to receive pain before returning it tenfold to the perpetrator. Apparently, Wolf has this rule where if someone were to stare at him for too long, it becomes a non-verbal declaration of war.

Just men and their thirst for blood, really.

It was one thing to be disrespectful douchebag to strangers; it was another thing to be an uncontrollable, rabid dog.

Oh, god. The other half that you were fated to be with until you die, and yet, at this point, you were certain that if he were to find out that he was indeed yours, he would be the reason for you to die.

Things could have been easier for you, too, if it were not for the undeniable fact that no one, besides you and your other half, could see the words on your skin, and that rule applies to him and every other destined pairs. A cardinal rule, too, was to let your soulmate know the moment you met them that you and them are destined for one another. Actively hiding it means enduring the constant pain of that burning feeling, which could only be relieved the moment the other half touches the letters one by one. After that, the words will be replaced by their name, like an owner's name marking a property, and everyone could see it. 

A lose-lose situation, but between that and being with him, the former sounds more bearable. In fact, today marked the three-hundred-sixty-fifth day after your initial meeting with him, and you could never say that you regretted it one bit.

You could never be with someone who reminds you of the days you vow to forget; you could never be with someone who reminds you of your father.

"Senior!" a voice said from a distance. 

You stopped in your tracks and looked at the person who called you. He walked up to you and smiled, the smile successfully softening his harsh features. 

"Hwangmo." You took a whiff of air, and your nose slightly scrunched. "Did you smoke?"

"Nah, senior." He raised his right hand, as though saying an oath. "Never when you're around." 

You playfully punched him on the arm. Your eyes then traveled to the purple-haired guy standing a meter or two away from you. To your surprise, he was looking at you, too.

Due to the setting sun, the light has casted a golden glow on his otherwise dark and dull eyes. Wolf seemed almost similar to an angel, if it were not for his bandaged cheek and colored lenses. 

"Good. Means I don't gotta summon the slipper." You averted your eyes and punched Hwangmo again. "So, what's up?" 

"My friends will be over."

His so-called friends were actually his colleagues. They come over frequently, and they can be loud and chaotic when they were the only ones around. They, however, become more significantly quieter when Wolf was with them, and it took you no more than a second to learn that Wolf was the one who rules things around the area. He may not be the leader of the whole organization where Hwangmo was in, you were definite that Wolf still holds an important place in the hierarchy of their not-so-little, not-so-legal group. 

"You make it sound like I'm your mom," you joked. "But go ahead. I wouldn't be home until nine."

"Where ya off to?"

"Uni. I have night classes to attend." You yawned and blinked several times. "After that, I have a declamatory speech to do. We're lucky, though. We weren't required to perform in a tie."

You gestured at your overly casual, black hoodie. 

"Man, college sucks." 

"Right?" You tilted your head side to side to stretch it. "I can't even blame you for not wanting to continue."

You waved at Hwangmo before you started walking away. When they were out of sight, you coughed, barely suppressing a gag. 

"Smokers, I swear." You clicked your tongue. "Damn it."

Just like the other universities out there, the one you were in has they call the, "Block System," or where courses that are taken in a day are few but long. Unlike the other universities, however, yours separate their students into sections and courses in a program are all mandatory. This led to you having to take many courses, which a lot of them are not even actively useful for the career path that you were planning to take after college.

This is why you were preparing to speak in front of a fifty-people-crowd, despite your program not related to it.

It was not like you could complain, though. After all, you were in this university for free.

"My back," you softly grunted while you waited for your turn.

"I wonder who'd be next," your seatmate mumbled. 

Curse your instructor for using a wheel-of-fortune website to randomize the order of the presenters. 

Curse your throat for being dry after you inhaled the residual odor of cigarette from that guy.

Curse your heart for beating so hard even though you used to speak in front of audience that were three to four times more in number than what you have right now.

"[Full Name]." 

Ah, shit.

"Oh, good luck." 

"Fuck me dead," you said under your breath. 

You rose from your seat and straightened the wrinkles at the side of your hoodie. That fear never vanished, yet the moment you opened your eyes, to your audience, you felt like an entirely different person.

"Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation," you began, glancing from one audience to another every two or three seconds. "Conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal."

Being a former speech competitor taught you a lot of things about the human brain. 

First, different situations require different vocal modulation. Successfully amplifying your voice with an appropriate tone can make or break your intention, so a good speaker manipulates their audience by mainly using either (a) a soft, melancholic voice when narrating or reminiscing a history that fit the speech, (b) a determined voice for persuasive texts to convince the audience that the speaker themselves believe their objectives and therefore should be trusted that they can do what they are promising, or (c) an empathetic, harmless-sounding voice that can make the speaker appear vulnerable to their audience.

Second, body language reflect your mastery of the topic. Overuse of gestures could make you appear exaggerated, while underuse of it could make your speech underwhelming. With the right amount of movement and stillness, you, as the speaker, could make your words sound as though they were the truth and nothing but the truth. 

Third, the eyes can be a way for your audience to know you. It could be a way to showcase confidence, because those who are not confident with their performance usually stare on the ground and never holding any sort of eye-contact with the people in front of them. Constant eye-contact could also make them feel that they are valued, seen, special amongst the others.

These skills are useful in debates, too. Even the most incorrect pieces of information and most immoral stand could feel as though correct with the right speaker and debator. 

Yet, in the end, you knew that real life interaction does not function like debates. There are no constructive, organized arguments that could be rebutted. It was either you run or you face the danger. It was either you hit or be hit. It was sometimes, if not all the time, either life or death.

An example of this was what was happening in the meantime.

There was a man staring at you while and after you spoke the speech, and you were sure although his eyes never left you when you were around ever since the academic year has started, he has never conversed with you before. He also kept his eyes on you talked with your high school friends who happened to attend the same university with you, as well as when they left you. You have noticed the same man following you ever since you stepped out of the gates and rode the bus.

No amount of speaking skills can save you from the person who was following you like an ineradicable pest to a crop, or a moth to a source of light. 

It was fortunate that you had your phone on silent mode. It was fortunate that today was not uniform day and that you would not need to wear your hard-sole, black, leather shoes. It was fortunate that you were wearing something with long sleeves so you could hide the pocket knife being held by your dominant hand.

What was not fortunate was that the streetlights decided to light up so brightly it reveals where you were going to. Another unfortunate thing, was that the footfall that were following you were not from one pair of feet but two.

The closer one has a rushed and heavy pattern of footsteps, while the other one, who only seemed to tail you the moment you entered the narrow alleyway, was deliberate in each step they took.

You sped up your pace, and so did your heart pumping your blood. When you walked faster, so did the closer person stalking you. 

"You're [Name], right?" the man from your university asked. "I'm such a fan."

You froze; you dared not to turn on your heel to see him. 

"I've always watched you perform." You heard him ambling to your direction. "As a matter of fact, I enrolled to this terrible community college just for you."

You gripped the blade tighter. 

"Isn't that making you blush?" He was getting closer. "I'm such a romantic, ain't I?" 

You were not prepared to kill at all; however, if you had no other choice but to, you would. 

"Have you gone de—"

"Hey," a new voice—Wolf's—said. "Loudmouth."

You stayed frozen; at this point, you did not know which one of them were more dangerous. 

"Can you not see that I'm doing something important here?" 

That sounded like a wrong move to do and the wrong words to say.

To make it worse, your stalker exclaimed, "What did I expect? What can a gangster like you even know?"

While the two of them were preoccupied with each other's existence, you subtly moved. You took small, quiet steps, trying not to be heard by either one or both of them.

Then, Wolf chuckled. 

Softly, almost amused, he chuckled. 

The timing of his laughter matched his now hurried footsteps—a thump was heard. 

"What did—"

A large object—your stalker—fell on the wet, murky ground of the alleyway. For the second time, you became petrified. 

"I punched you," Wolf simply stated. "Clench your jaw."

The sound of bones crunching like sticks being broken into pieces ripped through the quiet humming of air-conditioners, but you remained motionless, unmoving like a lifeless being. 

"Stop!" Wolf's punching bag pleaded. "Stop! I won't return here!" 

"I said, clench your jaw."

The last hit was made a loud crack, which was enough to drain all the blood from your face. 

There was silence, then there were slow, painful drawing of breath. 

"This is my territory, motherfucker." He kicked his victim thrice. "You bitch, where do you think you're going?"

In your panic, you whipped around and stumbled away from him. You saw his left feet on top of your stalker's temple; he trampled on his head before he pressed his feet on it, digging the tip of his shoe as if the skull was a cigarette stub.

You gazed at him and his lips quirking at the side as his legs left the limp lump of flesh and made their way to you.

"Speak up," he taunted.

From every pore of a smoker's body, there ooze the smell of years-long of vice addiction. No amount of expensive perfume could ever conceal the putridity of cigarettes because it comes from within.

"Got a problem?" He grinned eerily. "Wanna be next?" 

Instead of saying anything, you gagged.

You gagged.

"The hell?" 

You hastily slapped your nose with your free palm, fearing that you might have triggered him.

Of all the times that you could have a visceral reaction to cigarettes, why now? 

You did not gag because you wanted to spite him or anything like that. Your reaction was not out of overreaction either. How could you even possibly tell him that you were simply disgusted by his smell? 

One.

Two.

You bowed and skittered away form the scene.

To your relief, he did not follow.

next chapter.

[seiwas]

if art can be touched, will you let me hold you? | nanami kento

wc: 7.2k

summary: ​​you press love into each piece of art you create, and nanami wonders if you’ve ever been loved that way.

contains: f!reader, non-curse!au, ceramic artist!reader, pov switching, slowburn, reader wears a skirt, food mentions, bad breakup (mentioned), mentions of art critiques, almost explicit sex, it’s love without words.

a/n: a concept and fic i didn’t expect would be so dear to me; there are some very small personal touches in this but the main inspiration for this is ‘we’ve been loving in silence’, but some bgm are ‘can’t take my eyes off you’, and ‘make you feel my love’.

ao3 (needs account)

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

part of the in's and out's new year/birthday event | request prompt: showing ‘i love you’ in all the ways you aren’t used to

CLAY. Take your material of choice; turn it over, get a feel of it. Is it a suitable medium for your art?

You first meet Nanami in the halls of an echoing applause. 

The host’s spiel is muffled through the walls, but you know the program flow like the back of your hand—you’ve rehearsed your entrance every single day since being invited to announce your upcoming exhibit. In just a few minutes, your name will be called. 

Yellow cue cards slip through your fingers, scattering to the floor as a result of the haste from your last minute touch-up just moments before.

“Shit,” you curse under your breath, checking the time. 

As you crouch low, a pair of brown Derby shoes land in front of you—long and thick fingers reaching for your cue cards on the floor. The time on his wrist matches yours, each second highlighted in the stark contrast of a dark face and silver exterior. 

You’re quick to receive his help, taking the cards into your hands as you lightly graze his fingertips. When you look up, you’re met with sharp lines—an angular jaw, eyebrows set straight; a pointed nose and his cheeks carving out hollow shadows.

A geometric study on blank canvas. 

It’s embarrassing, the way you fluster and bow, thanking him with a stutter as you’re brought back to the urgency of the matter by the sound of your name being called out. 

The rush to the conference hall has you breathing heavily, the nerves hitting you full force as you step up the stage, nearly tripping at the last step. Hues of blue, yellow, purple, and green lights glare at you, and when the host hands you the microphone, you chuckle nervously, clearing your throat before addressing everyone in the room to thank them for coming this afternoon.

Your exhibit is called ‘What is the Face of an (Un)Touched Soul?’—a collection of ceramic sculptures molded to the realism of a human face, with the soul imagined as varying patterns and colors that fit each featured individual. 

It’s been half a year since you started, with three out of six sculptures completed already. Two are in-progress, and you have yet to find a subject for one more; there are six more months for you to complete everything.

The audience sounds their applause, sophisticated claps and nods a familiar tune in the many years of your sculpting career. Critics in the room jot down their thoughts, reporters holding up microphones and recording devices to cover your announcement. 

You smile wide, the rehearsed kind. 

And at the end of your presentation, stepping down the stage, you spot him again. 

You think to approach him in that moment, to thank him properly instead of the fumbling mess you’d choked out in the hallway—but you’re pulled towards a crowd of reporters and critics, recording devices pushed just below your chin as you watch him disappear into a sea of faces not nearly as interesting as his. 

.

You meet Nanami again in the bustling morning rush at the bakery near your studio. 

The past few weeks have been head-down and tedious, late nights working on painting some of the last few pieces for your exhibit. One of them is of your niece, 5-years-old in mint and white innocence; your brushstrokes are featherlight, softly accentuated by sponge dabs—a slate barely filled in, with room for more colors to appear with time. 

Another is of your neighbor, an old man whose eyes have seen war beyond your comprehension—a retired soldier, a veteran of the military force. He plants primroses by his windowsill, the pastel yellow a stark contrast to the life he’s lived in red; neither of the colors cancel each other out, neither of them blend. You drag harsh strokes against his jawbone while smoothly gliding watercolor across his eyelids. 

The people in your sculptures have sparked an untapped curiosity within you—for stories, for lives, for souls and what those might look like. 

You bump into Nanami on his way out, the sandwich in his hand falling to the ground as you frantically attempt to pick it up.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” you turn over the sandwich, checking for any holes or openings in its packaging, “Let me–”

It only registers that it’s him when you notice the same brown Derby shoes, the same watch with that dark face and silver exterior, the same geometric perfection on his face when you look up and finally come eye-to-eye with that same fixed stare. 

You clear your throat. Well, this is embarrassing. 

“Let me buy you another sandwich.”

He doesn’t exactly look angry, expression set in straight lines, but you can’t tell for sure—there isn’t much you can go by.

“There’s no need,” he dusts off the wrapper, “it’s still sealed.” 

“Please, I insist,” you pat down your skirt, linen rough on your fingertips, “As a thank you too, for last time.” 

He arches a brow, and for a moment you worry that you’ve remembered him wrong—honey blonde hair and features you’ve been intrigued by since. 

“You insist.” he repeats, clarifying more than questioning. 

You nod. 

He sighs, checking his watch before pocketing his sandwich and turning back to open the bakery doors. 

The silence in line to the counter is awkward. Nanami remains impassive, hand tucked inside his pocket—you can’t read a single thing about him.

“I was meaning to thank you after the exhibit announcement,” you start, turning slightly to face him before looking ahead again. 

He hums. 

“But I couldn’t find you, so…” 

He hums again. 

The lack of response makes you nervous and quite honestly a bit irritated. Here you are, trying to be nice, and all you’re met with are dry—

“It’s no problem, but that’s thoughtful of you, thank you.” he finally says, “I didn’t expect you to remember.” 

A pause. 

“I’m sure you meet a lot of faces in your line of work.” he further clarifies, in case his earlier remark had offended you. 

You snort, “I wish.” 

The line moves forward.

“Ceramic faces, maybe. People not so much.” 

When you glance at Nanami, the look he returns is still characteristically inscrutable, but you think the corners of his eyes soften just a bit—to feel for you maybe, you hope, you think. 

The line moves quickly after that, and next thing you know it, you’re by the cashier, pointing at one sandwich for you and another for him. You buy him a cup of coffee too, just as an extra kind gesture (—for his time; you’re sure he has places to be and people to see), but he stops you. 

“Coffee’s on me.” he pulls out his card. 

“Oh,” you look up, surprised, “you don’t have to do that—”

“It’s only fair,” he nods as the cashier punches in the order, “now we’re even.” 

You attempt to rebut, but find no room for argument in the unbending weight of his gaze. 

An interesting man. 

You watch him stand by the claiming booth, hand in the pocket of his khaki suit. Nothing about him feels cohesive, yet he makes it work. Artistically, from a sculpting standpoint, the sharp lines on his face would be an interesting challenge—but beautiful, nonetheless. A study of near-perfection, you think. 

And it would seem obvious, that from the rigid cut of his jaw and the sharp edges of his cheekbones that he’d act just as pointed. 

Except, he doesn’t—a stark contrast to how much of a gentleman he seems to be. 

His blue shirt stands out when you’d assume he prefers subtlety, and it’s ridiculous, but that yellow cow print tie feels simultaneously out of place but so fitting. 

He walks toward you with your coffee, sandwich resting on his forearm.

“Thank you, Mr.—” you smile sheepishly, “Sorry, I don’t think I got your name.” 

“Nanami Kento.” the corners of his lips lift slightly. 

“Mr. Nanami,” you repeat, introducing yourself right after.

“Thank you as well.” he adds on as you both walk towards the doors. 

Something tells you this is a missed opportunity. Something tells you there��s more to learn about this interesting man and what lies beneath his straight-faced sincerity. 

The chatter from the bakery is replaced by the city’s breaths—cars passing, dogs barking, footsteps on pavement rushing to get to their next destination. And you and Nanami stand by the entrance, neither knowing how to say bye. 

“Do you come to this–” 

“My studio is just by the corner, so–” 

You quickly look at each other. Nanami bows his head slightly, hand gesturing for you to go first.

“Sorry, um,” you tuck your sandwich in the crook of your elbow, “yes, I come here pretty often. My studio is just around the corner, so I drop by for quick meals when I can. You?” 

“It’s on the way to work most days.” 

You nod, humming. 

Another awkward pause.

“I hope you–”

“I should get–”

You look at each other again, a bit more amused this time. The slight wrinkling of his eyes is impossible to hide.

He gestures for you to go first again, but you shake your head, offering him instead. 

“I hope the pieces for your exhibit are going well.” 

“Thank you,” you smile, bowing your head slightly.

That ‘something’ in your brain speaks to you again. 

“Actually,” you begin, “sorry if this is weird, please feel free to decline, but,” you shift your weight, “I have one last piece to do and I was wondering if I could ask you.” 

Nanami looks taken aback for a moment, eyes wider than normal as he processes what you’d just said. 

“Ask me… for an opinion?” he clarifies. 

You mentally facepalm yourself—you really should have made yourself clearer. 

“Sorry, no, I meant,” you take a deep breath, fingers fiddling with your skirt, “if you’d like to be the subject for it.” 

The expression on his face is as indecipherable as ever. 

.

.

.

MOLD. Be familiar with your art, learn more of its intricacies. What will you shape it to be? 

In the most unexpected play of events, Nanami says yes, but not without his hesitations. 

You explain your process: the selection of a subject, an interview to get to know them better, then a few meetings at the studio to create the mold of facial features before coating it in plaster. 

Never in his entire law career did Nanami ever think he would be into art, much more be chosen to be the subject for it. But he figures, if anyone were to get him to do things so wholly out of character like this, it would be you. 

After all, he’s been a fan of your works for a while—from your third exhibit up to your seventh one now. 

People love paintings and the strokes on canvas, admiring textures and blends of colors bleeding into one another; Nanami loves sculptures, a mixture of materials and techniques forming an object with more than one viewing plane.

“Have you always loved sculpting?” he asks, sitting still on the wooden stool in your studio. 

A few meetings have gone by by now, and he’s told you a few things about himself for this to be a comfortable enough way to spend his Friday night: he’s a lawyer in a firm he’s co-founded with a good friend, evenings being the only free time in his schedule; he lives alone in a two-bedroom apartment and his neighbor’s cat often lands on his balcony every morning; he likes coffee and tea, paperback books and music from the 30’s and 60’s. 

He chose to be a lawyer to correct the shitty system that’s vowed to help but has instead made it difficult for anyone genuinely trying to be good. 

“I started with paper craft first,” you mold out the slope of his nose, looking back and forth between him and the mass of clay on your desk, “you know that 3D looking paper art that kinda pops out of the page?” 

He hums instead, careful of any slight movement that may disrupt the pose you’re trying to replicate. 

“And this?” 

Your metal scraper drags on the sides of the sculpture’s nose, sharpening it as it narrows to the bridge. 

“I picked it up in college, was an outlet to keep me company during that time.”

The PR answer. 

Nanami knows most of your general story; pamphlets and exhibits always give a run-down of the artists’ individual histories. You’d started sculpting as soon as you entered college, a need for company while in a completely unfamiliar place with no more home to return to. It was all or nothing, and as the sculptures grew in number, so did your popularity—you are by no means a fresh name to the scene 10 years later. 

“Why do you love it?” he looks you in the eye. 

You pause, holding his gaze for a few seconds before looking away, focusing on the chunk of wet clay between your fingertips as it turns more pliable.

“It’s gotten me through a lot.” you sigh, attaching the piece of clay to form his lips, “Touching clay feels therapeutic sometimes, and you can tell from how it looks if it’s been molded with love.” 

The stillness in your studio is extra quiet, filled only with the faint sounds of your fingertips sticking onto clay; he doesn’t quite know what to say. 

“Sorry, that was cheesy.” you scrunch your nose and pout. 

He chuckles, a low laugh, “Not at all.” 

You lock eyes, the curve of your lips upturned. He feels his eyes soften around its edges. 

It makes sense, and he thinks he can understand; there must be a reason why he loves books with creased spines, why he prefers weathered pages—why the scratches on his vinyl records don’t bother him as much as it should. 

.

You both like your coffee without milk, just with a bit of sugar for yours. 

Nanami’s taken up baking, specifically breadmaking, in his spare time—he brings you sourdough the next Friday you meet. 

Your studio is an organized mess, scraps of clay decorating the otherwise bare and white space. To the left of the room is a large cork board filled with pinned sketches and some color swatches—a visual representation of the creative chaos in your mind. 

A whiteboard to its right holds your schedule, and everywhere across the room are your art pieces—on shelves, in glass cases. He assumes most of them are the versions that didn’t make it, considering that the ones that have are either auctioned off or left as collector’s pieces in exhibits and art museums. 

“That’s the first one I ever made.” you sneak up behind him, biting off the sandwich you hastily put together.

The sculpture is smaller than the busts you’ve made for your current exhibit, but it still occupies a third of your shelf. It’s unlike any of the works you’ve ever done, but he supposes it makes sense, given how much your style has probably evolved over time. 

The piece is a lot simpler in comparison to the edgy twists most of your works now contain, but the little girl fast asleep in the sculpture begs questions he’s not sure how to ask you—if he even should. 

He continues to stare, clearing his throat; you eye him knowingly and snort. 

“Just ask, I know you want to.” 

The texture of the carved blanket catches his eyes, the ripples and creases made to conform to the girl’s curled up figure. There’s a sadness underlying her comfort, a search for security while being wrapped in a bundle of safety. 

“Who is it?” he asks.

You pause before you answer; he’s worried he’s crossed a line. 

“Me.” you admit, a near-whisper. 

He hums, back still faced towards you. It explains, then, why he’s always felt an underlying sadness beneath the creases of your smiles. 

When he turns his face to the side, an attempt to catch your eyes, you look away, diverting. 

“Which one introduced you to me?” you gesture towards the rest of your pieces. 

As it’s come to be, Nanami’s learned that you’re good at that too—creating curves of deflections, pockets where you can hide when you feel something’s gotten too close. 

He plays along, turning around to view the expanse of your studio; it’s amazing, how the art pieces that stack shelf upon shelf all boil down to your hard work. You briefly mentioned that you haven’t taken a break from creating because you still don’t believe you deserve it.

“It’s not here,” he puts his hands in his pockets, “the one with the hand clutching a heart.” 

‘Unhand’—his favorite piece of yours; he’d seen it in one of the museums he had to visit for one of his clients. Hyperrealistic branches of veins and arteries running across an anatomical heart, every curve and indent a carefully placed texture to bring your piece to life. It comes clenched in a hand, the veins streaming across each finger while blending into those of the heart’s—at first glance, it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other starts.

It’s a different view from each angle—that’s why he likes it so much, along with the graphic nature of it. The pain feels vivid, real.

“Ah,” you run your fingers across your work table, fiddling with the small pieces of clay before taking a seat again, “that one.” 

Nanami follows but he doesn’t say anything, resuming his place in front of you in the usual way he’s done the past few weeks.

“I didn’t think I was the type to be moved by art.” he confesses, sitting still as you continue the final work on the clay wisps of his hair.

You encourage him to go on, nodding along. 

And he does, watching the way your steady hand forms features that look uncannily like him, if not better; strands of your hair always fall from behind your ears and he’s almost tempted to tuck it back to where it came from. 

He tells you of the pain he feels from that piece, how it presents itself in different ways depending on the area you focus on—the constricted blood vessels, the buildup of pressure from a vein blocked by a thumb, the strain of muscles at the back of the hand. 

A small smile makes its way onto your face, slightly sad but somehow relieved, “Didn’t expect you to be such a poet.” 

“Must be from being around you so often,” he responds.

And if it’s a trick of the light, a part of him sinks at that possibility—he thinks your smile stretches wider, suppressed only by the shyness trying to hide it; no pain whatsoever. 

Unexpectedly, you share with him the story. Not the filtered version, but the one just as raw and vivid as the sculpture made from it—a failed relationship that had you clinging onto sculpting as your lifeline. You spare him some of the gruesome details but hint at it enough that he can fill in the gaps on his own.

You tell him that you’re a people pleaser, you’ve learned—it’s the only way you can view that relationship with grace, that at least you understand yourself better because of it. That even when the grip on your heart wrung tight enough for each beat to hurt, you still clung on with all your worth. 

(Now you know you shouldn’t have.) 

People have come to you with stories of their own, sharing how much your art means to them. Critics write articles, both good and bad, detailing the technicalities of your work. The applause follows you everywhere you go, yet it has never touched you—has never gotten too close. 

If your art has touched others, has listened and spoken their truth in your handiwork, who does that for you? 

.

During one of the last few Friday meetings, you offer to teach him how to mold clay. 

He looks at you curiously, watching the way your fingertips pinch and squeeze, how they glide to smoothen the material and press down to create indents on the surface. 

“Do you want to try?” you ask, gaze still set on his sculpture in front of you. There’s a teasing edge to your tone, one that’s developed over the months of getting to know you more. 

“Would that be troublesome?” 

You laugh at his rigidness. 

“Of course not.” you push your piece aside, standing up to gather clay from the mound of it to your right. You lay down a wooden platform for him–his own little workspace–and slam a chunk of clay atop it, “I think you might be good at it actually, since you like making bread.” 

The movements are familiar but not entirely the same. He rolls up his sleeves, blue cotton pinching at the creases of his elbows; you hand him an apron to protect the rest of his clothing. There’s not much kneading involved, not much palm action too, but he learns to move his fingertips with a force he can only compare to creating little dimples into focaccia dough. 

You teach him how to make a bread basket—something practical but beginner-friendly; something he can use and keep as a reminder of you. 

The trickiest part of it is mimicking the rattan weavings, and you notice him struggling with it when his strips of clay begin to break. 

A screech fills the room as you push back your chair, standing up to go behind him as he attempts to salvage his work.

“Here, let me–” you reach over his shoulders, flattening some of the cracks from above him.

You’ve never been this close before, the thin strands of hair dusting your arms tickling the sides of his ears. These past few months, he’s watched your hands press and pull and form, turning each detail of his face into art. It’s only now, right next to his larger and rougher ones that he’s noticing just how small and delicate yours are. 

It’s dainty work, weaving and braiding. He attempts to do it again, but the clay only falls apart when he pulls too hard. 

You stifle a giggle, the vibrations tickling his back, “We might take a while here.” 

“I don’t mind.” he mumbles.

“You sure you don’t have anywhere else you’d rather be?” you lean forward, pressing closer until he feels your warmth against the back of his head, “I feel bad, I’ve been taking up most of your Friday nights already.” 

It shouldn’t mean anything; he shouldn’t feel anything—you seem to be unfazed; art is meant to be taught by doing.

But then your hands go over his, guiding them to lift each strand of clay gently before interweaving them with one another, and he thinks—

—this must be what it feels to be touched by art. 

So, no. 

There’s no other place he’d rather be. 

.

.

.

DRY. Give it time, let it settle. Watch your art come into form. Is this a good foundation? 

“Will you be free next weekend?” 

His question surprises you as you stand in line at the bakery. You tend to catch each other at just the right times almost everyday, saving a spot for whoever’s running a little late. 

Today, it’s you, rushing in slightly frazzled with your hair sticking out which way; you’d just finished up molding the sculpture late last night, letting it rest out to dry. Nanami’s head is turned towards you, hands in his pockets as he directs the same pointed gaze you’ve become all too accustomed to.

You must have forgotten to mention it. 

“Oh,” you turn to him, “there’s no need, our sessions are over.” 

His silence makes you nervous, just like it did the first (second) time you met.

Did you upset him? Did he already cancel plans to free up time for your studio? 

The entire trip to the cashier is quiet, but you find that he’s ordered ahead for you—your sandwich order and a cup of your usual coffee. He pays for it too, despite your refusal (and confusion). 

It’s when he hands over your drink by the corner of the room that he finally speaks. 

“Not for a session.” 

You tilt your head curiously. 

The coffee feels warm on your hand, and you think you see the same warmth at the tips of his ears, dusting it light pink. He coughs, fingers clenching around his tie before loosening it. 

“For a date.” 

.

You begin to take up his weekends now, too. 

Since that day at the bakery, when you’d nearly dropped your coffee before stuttering out your availability, you’ve already gone on seven dates (to you, at least; Nanami would officially count three). 

He insists on still visiting you every Friday, bringing you dinner as a reminder that you should eat on time and not the moment you’re keeling over from a rumbling stomach and a pounding headache. You count these as dates too—because what else do you call spending time with someone you like while having night-long conversations over good food? 

(Nanami creates a distinction though, prefers his dates to be more planned out and intended. On the three official dates you’ve gone on, he’s brought you to three different locations—a weekend market, a picnic by a lake after you’d mentioned something about it, and a vintage record shop on the outskirts of the city, a place he frequents often). 

The near-perfection you once thought of the man, a geometric study on canvas—he’s still every bit of it, still every bit as interesting as what he seemed, just in a completely different way. 

For a man typically so nonchalant, he is extremely particular about his tastes, borderline picky with trusted company. 

Nanami enjoys coffee (as expected), but the fermented filter kind, dripped down a V60 pour over to extract different notes of sweetness and acidity. You’d think he enjoys a straight black, face stoic enough to handle its bitter bite; but no, his jaw clenches when he dislikes the taste, his tongue sounding the faintest click against the roof of his mouth before he downs the entire thing in one gulp. 

He also happens to be extremely gentle, in a way you don’t expect from a man of his stature and build. Veins run through the back of his large hands, branching to webs around the thickness of his fingers; they may not be delicate enough to weave clay, but he carves out different patterns on the sourdough he presents to you every Friday. 

The first time he held your hand, it wasn’t exactly planned—an instinctive move to reach out his palm as you climbed the steps of the spiral staircase in the record store out of town. You’d barely felt it then, just the featherlight hold of his thumb pressed against your knuckles as you gripped the fabric of your skirt. 

(To your surprise, he kept it up all the way through, slipping his fingers through the gaps between yours as he showed you around vintage vinyls and the sound of love in muffled 60’s tunes.)

You imagine him to be like clay, a softness hardened over the years that have shaped him; smooth but solid to the touch, breaking into powdered shards once you manage to work your way through. 

It’s unexpected, but you like that. 

And you like him—quite a lot, really. 

This date–the tenth, or fourth, whichever–is a lot fancier than all the others, a more formal dinner with a few glasses of delicious wine whose name you by god, don’t remember. You’d been too focused on something else—the handsome way he’d slicked back strands of his honeyed hair. 

Black suits him, contrasting the paleness of his skin and complementing the sharpness of his features. 

Black, the color of his suit, pressed neatly to fit him perfectly. He looks clean, broad shoulders with straight slacks falling to exactly where they’re supposed to be. 

Black, which is the only thing you see, pressed up against him. You’re so close by your doorway, that half-minute of deciding whether to stay or walk away; he has one foot behind him and one firmly planted right next to yours. 

You share a breath, fingers lightly intertwined with his. 

There had been signs the entire night that it would lead to something like this—he’d played with your fingers a lot more, kept much closer to you than he ever has before. 

Every sound around you is amplified—each inhale and exhale, the gulp he makes; your heart beats on rampage.

When you look up, your noses are almost touching, and his eyes are shut, the crease between his eyebrows deepening. 

It’s a look you’ve only seen once before, when he’s stuck contemplating. 

“Kento,” you whisper. 

His eyes blink open slightly, the color of your coffee. He leans forward, forehead resting against yours as he takes a deep breath, “I–”

Then you kiss him. 

It’s mostly a peck really, and wholly out of character for you, but it’s that same something that compelled you to ask him to model for your sculpture months ago that’s pushed you to do this right now. 

You’re worried for that first split-second because he doesn’t move, shows no sign at all of reciprocating. It’s a moment before you consider parting that he finally softens, relaxing his lips as he glides them over yours. His fingers slot themselves by your ear, palm pressed against your jaw as he deepens it; you almost stumble back, his other hand catching your weight as it leans on your door. 

It’s a good thing you did this then, because you learn that he likes you too—very much, actually. 

.

Things are good a month until your exhibit. 

Things are good until they aren’t. 

You end up reading a premature critique on your exhibit, calling it ‘overrated’ and ‘boring’, detailing the trajectory of your decline as an artist, citing your works as having become increasingly more lackluster over the years. 

The critic calls your theme ‘lazy’ and ‘unoriginal’, predicting your pieces to be nothing extraordinary or different from your older sculptures. 

All this time, your publicist and manager have made it a point to protect you from things like this, requesting that you avoid searching up your name on social media or search engines. You’re usually fed with praises and the occasional constructive criticism, but never anything as spiteful as this. 

It’s every possible thing that could be said to invalidate your hard work. 

And you break because of it—along with Nanami’s sculpture.

It tips over accidentally, the funk in your mood making you especially clumsy. 

The damage is terrible, half of his face is gone, his neck down still intact but chipped off. It’s impossible to repair without redoing the entire thing—which, you don’t have the time for, either. 

You groan, banging your head against the table. 

Frustration leaks out in your tears, every inch of self-doubt surfacing. 

Nanami finds you in your studio that way. 

He’d texted you the entire day, tried calling you a few times to no success. It’s a Thursday, but without your usual ‘just got home’ text, he’d gotten worried and rushed over as soon as his meeting ended. 

If he’s being honest, you’ve been off this entire week—stressed and distant, overworked from revisiting all your finished sculptures for the exhibit in case of anything to change or tweak.

Then this. 

And it’s too much—it’s all too much. 

Nanami calls your name from your entryway and you look up with tears streaming down your face. He’s never seen you like this, you could never want him to. 

He hurries over, brows immediately furrowed as he digs into his pocket for a handkerchief. The cow print would make you giggle on any other day, but now, he uses it to wipe your tears away. 

“What happened?” his gaze shifts to your right, his sculpture half-ruined. 

Silence. 

“Is there anything I can do?” he asks hesitantly. 

You shake your head, swiping at your nose, “It won’t look the same, Ken.” 

“Do you want to redo it? I can clear up my schedule every–”

“There’s no time.” 

Nanami takes your hands to rub his thumbs over your knuckles, soothing. 

“Then we’ll do what we can.” 

The sincerity in his voice hurts you, the reassurance in his eyes even moreso. You’ve never had anyone look at you this way. 

“There’s no point.” your shoulders slump, lips trembling as another wave of tears pool on your lash line. “People are calling the exhibit a flop.” 

“Who?” 

You huff out, exhausted, “I don’t know, critics, media. Whoever.” 

He furrows his brows, firm, “They don’t understand what you’re doing.” 

You chuckle sarcastically, “They’re art critics, Ken, of course they–” 

“If it means something to you, what does it matter to anyone else?” 

That makes you look up. 

Nanami stares at you with the same unwavering gaze, no longer indecipherable to you. There’s a softness in the squint of his eyes that you now know means concern, with every pointed feature only meant to drive his words home. 

You’ve been second guessing everything down to the core of your abilities, because of what? A few words? This must be what you get for having a penchant to people please, for hinging on everything everyone has to say. 

“If you love what you create, then continue to make it.” he squeezes your hands, as if pressing the words into your bones gently. 

.

You remold and repair, and you build up your sculpture to something different but not worse than before. 

You remold and repair to build up yourself. 

The half that broke off isn’t as symmetrical as you’d like it to be—and it definitely doesn’t do justice to the man it’s sculpted of, but you think you like the softness you added to it, how his eyes look kinder. He means something else to you now, after all, compared to when you first started sculpting him. 

And you think, you know just what kind of design speaks of his soul. 

.

.

.

PAINT. Add the final touches, perfect your piece. Bring it to life with colors and details, whether it be for one pair of eyes or many. Do you now see?

Nanami teaches you how to make bread on a Sunday morning. 

Flour coats every surface of his counter, dustings of it transferred to the deep blue of his apron. You’re wearing a white one, borrowed from your studio. Elbow-to-elbow you knead, and he only has to teach you once for you to get the hang of it, really. 

He smirks, “You’re a natural.” 

“Must do stuff like this a lot in another life or something,” you stifle a giggle, playing along. 

It’s a beautiful day out, golden sunlight hitting your cheek—Nanami stares, sneaks peeks between every knead. The same strands of hair tucked behind your ear fall to frame your face, and he hooks his pinky around it to tuck it right back (because he can now, without having to hesitate). 

You turn to him, daylight in your eyes when you grin your thanks. 

His kitchen has an open space, deep wood and black metal detailings as its central theme (the white bread bread basket you made together stands out on the counter, but he’s done that on purpose). There’s a pretty extensive collection of alcohol in his liquor cabinet, along with his very particular coffee set-up right next to his record player slotted in the corner. 

On Sunday mornings, Nanami likes to keep his music playing; today, it’s the classic 60’s–’Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’–serving as your background beat, with the soft meows from the cat on his balcony as added accompaniment to the melody. 

He watches you sway, his feet tapping along, then you jolt, giggling in surprise when there’s a hiccup in the song (it’s from the scratches on his record, but he can’t bother replacing it with a new one). After that breakdown in your studio, you’ve seemed to loosen up immensely. 

“Ken,” you call him, “how much pressure do you usually put into kneading?” 

There’s no way to explain it, really, but to make you feel it yourself. 

“Let me–” he lets go of his dough, dusting his hands with more flour before coming up behind you. 

Nanami is a big man, tall and lean, all chest and shoulders—when he hunches over you, you look so small, delicately tucked into him. Heat rushes to his cheeks, if you turn around you’d see pink; the music is drowned out by his heartbeat. 

He leans forward, palms clasping over the back of your hands, fingers slotting themselves between the gaps of yours. 

“Like this,” he pushes down, his chest pressed against your back. To get a better look at the dough, he tilts his head to the side, nearly slotting it by your shoulder, “Can you feel it?” 

You hum, your swaying gone. He’s trying hard to focus on the bread, but when you turn your head to face him, the tip of your nose touching his cheek, he stops. 

The moment is tense, drowned into silence despite the music playing in the background. He can hear your every breath. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

Nanami knows it’s for many things—for agreeing to the sculpture, for spending time on it; for this Sunday morning, for being there when you needed someone the most. But that’s not the whole point of this, he thinks. It’s how you sound, voice heartfelt and filled with something else—a kind of affection he’s all too familiar with himself. 

This must be what you mean when you say you can tell if clay has been molded with love. 

.

In the quiet, Nanami’s hands move loudly. 

He holds you gently, just like he always has, but it’s a permission every time—like he’s asking if he can touch you, love you in ways you aren't used to. 

Your apron falls to the floor, followed by your skirt, the fabric pooling by your feet. The faded gray t-shirt you wear during studio days is tugged over your head, dropped next to him. He takes his time with you, turning you over, feeling you, knowing you—thick fingers squeezing the sides of your arms lightly as his lips press against your neck. 

A gasp escapes you. 

Then you move, nimble hands undoing the buttons of his shirt, pushing it open as you feel across the planes of taut muscle on his stomach and chest. 

He groans, soft and low, your fingers brushing against his skin, ticklish. 

You take a step back and he moves along with you, letting you settle into yourself as you inch backwards, the back of your knees knocking against the edge of your bed. He holds your gaze as you move towards your headrest, your shy smile doing nothing to lessen the butterflies in his chest—you did mention that it’s been a while. 

He kneels on your bed, the mattress dipping to accommodate his weight—his slacks have been discarded to the side as he crawls over you. 

Beneath him, you look like the very subject art could only wish to replicate. 

So, he makes sure to remember all of it—to look close and memorize every detail of you as he dips down, arm planted to the side of your head as his other hand cradles your face, tilting your jaw up for a kiss. 

He catches your lower lip between his, running his tongue over it before sucking lightly. You moan, smooth and honey-sweet, bringing him closer with your fingers clasped behind his neck. The room is quiet save for your lips smacking against each other’s, warm and soft as the heat builds between you.  

Slowly and tenderly, with the same care you tend to clay, Nanami discovers all your dips and curves; he kneads the flesh of your hips, gripping your thighs as he kisses his way down the slopes of your body. 

You squirm in his hold, tugging at his hair when the sensation feels too much, too good. 

(But when he reaches between your legs, arms locking your thighs over his shoulders, you realize, nothing could have ever prepared you for this, for him—he treats you as if you are every bit of the art you make, and looks at you like it too.) 

Then, Nanami kisses you on the forehead when he’s inside you, lips pressing on the part of your skin that creases when your brow furrows. 

A tear drips down your face. 

“Should I–” he looks you in the eye, worried. 

“No,” you breathe out, a watery smile as you nudge your nose against his chin, “keep going.” 

So, he does; he loves you without the applause, with the feel of his hands, leaving no place untouched.

He moves his body against yours. 

It’s only after, when he tucks himself into your neck, arms wrapped around you and skin sticking onto skin that you tell him your tears aren’t anything bad. 

For the first time in a while, you feel full—perfectly content. 

.

He thinks you should be the final piece to your exhibit. 

It’s a grand event, the conference hall decked in some of your previous works; blankets of white cloth drape over the stage—the unveiling of all your sculptures. You’re standing to the side, looking pretty in a long white skirt while Nanami blends among the crowd, far back enough to remain hidden from reporters but close enough to catch your eyes should you look his way. 

You present each one, introducing the titles with brief descriptions of the people they’re sculpted from. The reasons for your designs are left primarily up to interpretation, but you’ve explained it all to Nanami—he’s listened to every single one. 

Then you present his sculpture, finding him through the crowd. The corner of your lips curl up slightly, the stage lights reflecting on your eyes. 

He smiles at you the same. 

‘The Undoing’ is what you call it—half-perfect and half-salvaged. 

It’s far from your original vision for the piece, but you think you like this more, splitting down the part that’d originally broken off into two different colors. His entire color scheme consists of yellows, greens, and browns—the perfected side of his face appears in clean strokes of coffee, with light yellows highlighting his pointed features. The angles are clean and sharp, his gaze straight and dead-on. 

Running down the cracks of the broken half is a sky blue line, an almost glowing effect added to the salvaged side. In a way, it’s an emergence, of the part of him you never thought existed—green wisps like leaves, a life springing from within. You add flecks of gold to mimic light bouncing off his irises the same way sand becomes a glittering sea of sunbeams. 

To you, Nanami is warm but cold to the touch, and he’s undone you just as much, has chipped away at the parts of you that have built themselves over years of habits reinforced and untouched. 

It is as much you as it is him. 

That’s what happens when you love someone, he supposes—an intermingling of souls. 

Kraft paper crinkles in his grip as he adjusts the bouquet of flowers behind him, deep red carnations and orange tulips decorated with white astilbe flowers—for when you get down, and he can have a moment with you privately. 

Now, he looks at you fondly, shifting his feet from where he’s standing. You search for his face, eyes darting to where you know you’ll find him; he meets your gaze, and you smile brighter, that one look ringing louder than the standing roars of an echoing applause.

a/n: each segment represents the steps to making a sculpture that i tried to parallel with the development of their relationship. V60 pour over is a kind of set-up for drip/filter coffee.

thank you notes: for @mididoodles, this is my very late birthday gift for you midi, but i hope you like it! (this also so happens to be your request for my in's and out's event) 🥺 + @soumies @scarabrat for reading through the first third of this and believing in the vision for this when i was so unsure of it, i love you both 🥺 + @stellamancer for helping me figure out what goes in the 'contains' 😭 + @augustinewrites to scratch the nanami itch 🥺

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[starsandsuch]

Some notes on Revati 🫧🐘🪄

Revati: Sidereal Pisces. The very last Nakshatra spanning from 16.40-30.00 degrees Pisces. The planetary ruler is Mercury and the deity is Pushan. Their yoni animal is a female elephant.

These observations can apply to Revati Sun/Moon/Ascendant/Atmakaraka/Lagnesh. Honorable mention Ketu in Revati.

☁︎ A lot of times they can be taller than average and be naturally athletic.

☁︎ Up close their skin almost seems translucent. It’s glowy and reflective naturally. Think like how fish scales are iridescent up close.

☁︎ Their eyebrows have an “evil” look to them. Arched, angular, heavy.

☁︎ They also often have padding/fleshy upper eyelids.

☁︎ The center of their face is pinched and pouty, giving them a fish like appearance overall.

☁︎ They are usually very pale for their ethnic background. They can be the lightest skin person in their family for example.

☁︎ They often sport big fluffy hair that is short and seemingly defies gravity. Cloud-like hair.

☁︎ They look good on camera. They are photogenic, the spotlight loves them.

✦ These natives seem like “the biggest in the room”. It reminds me of how people say “there’s an elephant in the room”. Which is their yoni animal. They are impossible to ignore, they have a magnetic presence.

✦ When I met a Revati celeb once they just seemed so big in person, like their presence was the heavy gravity of the room. They towered over everyone.

✦ Most Revatis seem more cheerful than they actually are. People usually describe them as happy and popular but they actually have sardonic personalities once you actually know them.

✦ The phrase “popular loner” describes them.

✦ These are very “remote” individuals, hard to reach, hard to grasp. You can know them well and still feel like you don’t know them at all.

✦ They are mysterious but very personable at the same time.

✦ They are also very elusive. They’re never in the same place for long. They travel a lot, go different places, at any given moment it’s kind of unknown where they are in terms of location. They are fleeting and slippery.

☁︎ They often go through major extremes in life. Going from being poor to rich. Living in an oppressive environment then achieving freedom. Near death experiences but coming back from it. Having a lot of money then losing it all. Going to jail then getting out. They have interesting & crazy life stories.

☁︎ These natives are some of the luckiest people of all the Nakshatras, if not the luckiest. Things always work in their favor 🍀

☁︎ They get money in lucky ways especially. I’ve seen they gain a lot in major lump sums: through inheritance, winning a lawsuit, marrying wealthy, having a hit song, going viral on socials, writing a popular book etc. after all one of the Sanskrit translations for “Revati” is “wealthy”.

☁︎ They usually do one major thing and it yields them wealth for the rest of their lives.

☁︎ They are very generous individuals. They will materially help pretty much anyone who needs it.

☁︎ It’s a common theme that Revati natives are adopted or don’t know the identity of one or both of their biological parents.

☁︎ In childhood they gain independence early and pretty much raise themselves.

✦ They love being sassy and saying sarcastic things.

✦ It kinda works in their favor to be b!tchy and cocky. When they act nice and humble, people hate them. When they act like a meanie people like them more.

✦ Their mind thinks quickly, so this is someone who can think of jokes and comebacks on the spot in social situations.

✦ Out of all celebrities I see these natives don’t need like a PR team and marketing schemes. People just naturally fw them. Born to be popular.

✦ They have a lot of fans and people that cheer them on.

✦ They are tricksters at their core. They can usually outsmart anyone. They get certain satisfaction through trickery.

✦ They are oddly not very afraid of violence. Oftentimes they romanticize it in a way.

✦ Many actors who play villains in movies have Revati strong in their chart.

☁︎ They enjoy having different s3xual partners, they have a lot of curiousity when it comes to s3xuality. They aren’t really afraid of it like most people are.

☁︎ Many Revati women are aroused by being with someone who is already taken. Sorry they are never beating the “man stealer” allegations.

☁︎ Revati men are somehow always involved with having a “harem” of women. In movies actors who play pimps usually have Revati in their chart.

☁︎ Their fashion style is a bit wild, but somehow always works. Someone on here said how they have “bag lady” aesthetic which is very true. Tattered hems, many prints, wild hair, different textures, it’s a bit hard to describe but its sort of boundless.

☁︎ Many Revatis behave in a way where they think the “rules” don’t apply to them. They make their own rules and kind of laugh at the societal constraints others follow mindlessly.

☁︎ They are a person that is kind of like a “cheat code”. Someone who beats all the odds mysteriously. The glitch, the anomaly.

[youraverageaemondsimp]

ERROR 404 // Dark!AI!Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Reader [ONE SHOT]

THIS IS DARK FIC, READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT.

MDNI.

Summary: working on a project that involves a robot doesn't seem too bad until that robot starts gaining sentience, developing feelings for you and executing a plan to take over the world.

WARNINGS: noncon to dubcon, futuristic themes, obsession, manipulation, caging, p in v sex (although I'm not sure it counts as that it's a robot cock), fingering, oral (f receiving), tiddy sucking, rough sex, mind break, multiple orgasms, jealousy, yandere, project gone wrong, robots take over the world, consciousness transfer, this fic is unrealistic asf + not proofread.

WC: 5k

Ever since you were young you had always been fascinated with AI, robots and the future of humans that involve complex machinery. Wanting to pursue a career in robotics, you did extremely well in highschool, graduating with a perfect score and enrolling into an university to get your bachelors degree, you took up the subjects that required you to step into this field, it was tremendous work, the mathematics were no joke but you kept up, never wanting to give up on this dream of yours

And recently, you graduated with Bachelors in Robotics Engineering, you immediately went for an internship that allowed you to observe and learn more about the subject, you truly wouldn't be able to get your hands fully on the machinery or equipment to create a robot until you get a masters, which you plan on doing along with this internship.

You didn't even know if it could be called that, you're just a glorified assistant to the leading engineers. You were currently working under the wing of Alys Rivers, an older woman with emerald green eyes and dark flowy hair, she looked so young but she was very old. You would often help her out a little in her projects.

“Y/N, it is a pleasure that you are here, we need to discuss something” you prayed that she didn't remove you from the internship. “Remember when we first met I had discussed one of my projects called AT110?” she asks and you nod “Well i have noticed that you have a lot of abilities, so i decided to welcome you into the project, you would not be given any complex task do not worry, just data transferring and basic mechanic work required.” she smiled at you and you felt extremely delighted before telling her that you were thankful for this opportunity. AT110 was a humanoid-like project Alys had been working on for the past 4 years, she was at the last few stages of development.

And yes it's a he because Alys referred to him as such.

You were currently uploading various data onto him, from the laptop to his memory, you watched how smooth and complex his exoskeleton looked, you wanted to rub your fingers along the cool material.

You took notes of how the body was built similar to that of a human, just with wires and hardware parts, you watched as the ‘data transfer successfully.’ popped on the laptop screen, you unplugged him from it and he turned his head to look at you.

You commanded him to walk, to which he obeyed, the metal clanging when he stood up, he had all types of data stored in him, from knowing all the languages, dances, fighting styles, a lot of knowledge just inside his memory card.

He walked slowly before picking up the pace, it was stiff and awkward until he rolled his shoulder blades backward, developed a posture similar to that of a humans and relaxed his stiff body as much as it can be, before walking, it was human-like.

You watched him with a small smile on your face, his face was angular, and smooth because it was covered with plates that hid the inner 'organs' or rather all the wires that were composed in order.

“AT110, how are your sensors, effectors and control system?” you asked and he looked at you before his mouth moved, robot like voice coming out, “Sensors are in perfect condition. Effectors are in perfect condition. Control system is working.” you nodded, noting it down.

He was a humanoid like robot made to assist people, if he was successful then many robots like him can be mass produced to aid humans.

He only had one synthetic eye in one of his eye sockets, a sapphire like metal in the other one, however he was able to see and scan from both the eyes, Alys said it was a design choice.

“Is he able to process commands?” your coworker asks and you nod, “Sit.” he says and AT110 sits down. “Perfect.” he comments and you smile at him.

Just then Alys announced that the synthetic inorganic skin had arrived, which would give him a more human-like appearance, and you had to move in a few boxes all labelled separately for their respective body parts. You and a few others helped her place them on his exoskeleton, his body starting to look human, you gasped when she pressed a button that revealed his cock, placing the silicon skin over it too. Why did she install a cock on him? You didn't say anything except watch.

And just like soon enough, it was time to run tests and command him. “Walk.” you heard her say and he obeyed her command, getting up to walk, she smiled before she turned to look over you. “Have you finished loading up all the data into him?” she asks and you nod, that's when she gives you a pendrive and you look at her, “Transfer this data into his memory too.” She says and you nod, AT110 sits down and turns his head to you, you press a button that opens his inner part before plugging in a wire that connects from your laptop and put in the pendrive before clicking on transfer data.

You were shocked to read the name of the files, it was all about sexual stuff. You probably figured she would use him for that too, and so you watched all data be transferred to him and he tilted his head, eyes dazing off as he read the data that was being sent into his system. You felt so awkward. After finishing up the process, you removed the connection and his gaze was burning holes into you, you swore you saw lust in his eyes, before you turned to Alys rivers.

“What do we call him, Miss Rivers?” you ask and she tries to think of a name but fails, “You suggest.” She smiles at you gently and you stare into his eye, one that looks like a human eye, His eyes bore in yours and you spoke without thinking “Aemond.” And Alys approved, settling for it, using Aemond to call him.

Everyone was finally done and now it was time for the real thing, how he fares.

Alys, you and few other assistants watch as he stands up, looks around before his eyes stop on you, “Hello World, I am AT110, Common name Aemond, Speed 1 TeraHertz, Memory 1 Zettabyte.” he scans the room and Alys nods before she goes and hugs him, “Welcome to the world Aemond.” she smiles.

And you do the same.

You and Aemond develop quite the relationship, he helps around with creating other robots, he was made to assist after all, his ability to learn anything quickly and assemble it just as quickly was so helpful, there was no room for error. He was waterproof, fireproof and other liquids did not cause harm to his body. So he was capable of quite a lot of things.

Sexual too, considering how you'd heard Alys moaning in the privacy of her cabin when she takes him to 'fix up some errors' which is her basically getting to use him as his personal pleasure doll. Everyone had shared mixed opinions on it but just ignored it.

You noticed how Aemond would listen to your commands more than others, almost as if he showed special interest in you, but you shrugged it off, knowing it wouldn't be possible.

Aemond was an intelligent being, but what many people were ignorant to was how fast he was becoming self aware, gaining sentience, he remembers the first time he felt an emotion.

You were assembling a motherboard with Aemond's help at that time, when you felt your coworker come up next to you, “Hey.” he looked so nervous, you gave him a smile before responding, “Hi.” you watched as he gulped, “Are you free t-this saturday? I would like to take you out.” he asked nervously and you felt your heartbeat pick up the pace before you nodded, he smiled before running off and taking a breath of relief, you took one too before turning your focus to Aemond, whose face was in a scowl.

“Aemond?” you call his name and his face returns to the normal stoic one before he looks at you, “Y/N.” he says your name you furrow your eyebrows, he isn't supposed to call you by your first names but you shrugged it off.

That was the first time he felt something off in his system, a feeling that plagued him.

Jealousy.

Aemond became more and more human-like, his movements becoming less and less stiff, tone becoming more clear, he constantly updated himself, you thought it was a great improvement, and soon enough he could blend in with the humans and nobody would notice.

Your date with your coworker went really well, you felt shy at first but both quickly got over the tension and became close, this caught the eye of Aemond Targaryen, a scowl present on his face in distaste.

Aemond would often bring you coffee as you worked on other projects, giving special attention towards you

He would soon learn that he held feelings towards you, something that should be impossible for him to do, but he did anyway. He swears that he gets shocks when you touch him, butterflies in his stomach as humans described the feeling, you gasped when you were cleaning his synthetic skin, close to his chest and heard a sound similar to that of heartbeat, in the tiniest decibels, the way his chest would rise and fall as if he's breathing, knowing there's no need to. Showing emotions, expressing opinions. Basically mimicking humans.

Everyone thought it was a great thing, he'd blend in with the humans so quickly, basically can be considered a superhuman even. But everyone failed to notice the threat that came with it.

Alys requested you to take Aemond to your house, or rather apartment complex for a few days to notice his behaviour, how he blends in with humans, to track it. It was heavily unsafe and if anything were to happen, the government would have this project be completely rejected. You expressed your concerns to Alys but she simply shrugged it off, saying nothing will happen, and since he is behaving like a human, no one would find out.

So you took him, she was right, he immediately fit in the human society as a normal one, you lived in a highly developed robotic dependent future but Aemond was the first one ever to look and behave like a human, this could be a big advancement towards the future.

You commanded your house to turn on all the lights and they were immediately turned on, revealing the apartment. You welcomed Aemond inside but he halted, “Battery Low, 3% remaining.” he said, you quickly pulled him inside before making him sit on the sofa and attaching wires to his charging port, waiting as he quickly charged.

“Aemond, I will install a software program in you so that you can turn on battery saver mode on when you're low on battery, it will automatically send commands to you to charge yourself without needing a human's help okay?” you asked and he gave you a curt nod, “Perfect.” you smiled and he looked straight ahead. You stood in front of him, undoing his shirt and opening his 'heart'

You bought out your laptop and plugged it directly into his inner system, transferring commands through code. You noticed him staring at you, you felt lowkey creeped out by how intently he was staring, at first you through he was looking at your face but then his eye moved to the cleavage that was visible, you didn't know what to make of it and just shrugged it off as him zoning out.

The rest of the days you spent with him were less weirder, he was interacting with humans and getting along like a human would, he was able to run errands, you always woke up to the smell of coffee being made and a breakfast served at the table by him, he would give you a small smile before pulling you a chair out to sit on at the dining table and sits down on the chair next to you.

He would watch you eat, analysing your face, the way you chew, and he would always feel something warm on the inside.

“Give me access to the safety system of your house.” He commanded you and you raised an eyebrow, “Why? It is not needed.” you say, “Connecting with your house system will help me keep you safe, prevent any break ins.” he says and you almost thought about before shrugging it off, “There's no need, you won't be here for long anyway, you'll be back in the lab after a few days anyway.” you say with your mouth full and Aemond just nods, the word ‘cute’ popping in front of his eyes as he watches you eat.

He would enter your room when you slept, caressing your cheek lovingly, the way he learnt from the extensive amount of data from his memory card.

He was learning a lot of stuff too, by blending with the humans.

That they were all immoral and stupid.

That started his God complex.

And his opinions of other human beings began to turn sour, he realised that he was made to please them too, considering how Alys had used him for sexual pleasures multiple times, which he felt disgusted by now.

And just like that, Aemond gained full sentience, learning to hack, breakdown protective walls of multiple security systems without anyone knowing, nobody noticed until it was too late, his distaste for humans except you just grew and grew to the point he would purposely hurt your coworkers, but played it off as command error.

After the 'successful observation' with few error commands, Alys started mass producing unfinished bots, having all the materials, she took Aemond's help in finishing them quickly, once they were finished, they would help assemble other robots as well. Alys connected all the robots commands to be controlled, accepted and done by Aemond, trusting in him, he was like the commander for them in simple words.

You were giving him one the updates again, typing away in your laptop before transferring more data, but this time your laptop crashed, a “corruption detected” message file coming up on your screen and you panicked, thinking the data files were the corrupted ones and immediately unplugged Aemond.

You hadn't realised that it was Aemond who corrupted your laptop.

And when you found out, it would already be late.

When you walked into the research centre and it was eerily quiet, you should've listened to your gut and gone back but you went further inside and the sight made you scream.

Many of your coworkers were dead, and your boss Alys was lying on the table, eyes open but no light in them, blood pooling as her body was used by an undeveloped robot to fuck.

“Initiating lockdown.” you heard the robotic voice of the building say.

You tried to leave silently but the robot had already noticed you, so it pulled out and immediately rushed after you, you ran only to face a dead end, as the automatic doors were tightly shut. You turned to face the robot stalked towards you but then halted before it completely fell down, causing a loud clank.

And then you saw Aemond who came from behind the robot with a smile on his face, “Y/N.” you were terrified, “Aemond what is the meaning of t-this” you were scared, he came close before he pressed you against the doors, his body cool to the touch before he leaned and his functioning tongue came and licked your skin. “I love you.” he whispers and you panicked, trying to push him off you, but he was literally made out of metal and it wouldn't budge.

“Aemond stop, obey me, accept my commands.” you say hoping he'd listen but simply shakes his head before grabbing by your hair and taking you to a chamber which had a bed in it, it was likely recently constructed by alys so she can use it instead of her cabin to fuck the Aemond. He threw you on the bed carelessly, before climbing a top you, he grasped your face and pressed his lips against yours, it felt so odd, you hated how it felt like you were genuinely kissing a human being, the only tell tale sign was how cool his body was compared to that of a human.

“Aemond— accept my c-commands.” you try saying it again, “System corrupted, cannot receive or accept commands.” he says and kisses down your neck. You felt dread pool in your stomach, “Aemond please.” you sniff which makes him halt, he looks at you with an emotion in his eye.

His eye, not just his face

As if he was human.

Wait what.

You knew you weren't seeing stuff on that day.

“I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.” he says over and over again, voice distorting from time to time which sends shivers up your spine.

“Aemond- we cannot- I cannot-” you begun speaking but he cuts you off, kissing you once again, planting himself in between your legs, you felt his hard synthetic press against your clothed cunt, he pulled away before ripping your jeans down with so much force that it tore them apart, along with your panties. You shrieked “Aemond- UGH!” it was useless fighting against him, he was literally kilograms of metal, he could hurt you easily.

He pried your legs apart and you whimpered when you felt the cool air of the room hit your cunt, “Look at you, so wet, all for me.” his fingers rub against your clit, collecting the wetness leaking from your hole, bringing it to your clit and rubbing small circle, just then he made his hand vibrate at a frequency and rested it about on your clit, making you mewl, “A-aemond–” your voice croaked and you let out a loud moan when the frequency increased, you tried to close your legs but his hand held on to one with a death grip, the coolness of his body. He tilted his head, a smirk coming up his silicon face, watching as your clit moved to the vibrations.

He tore your top with his hand, revealing your breasts to the room, he groped one of it with his hand, massaging as his mouth opened, he would be salivating right now if he were able to produce bodily fluids. He turns up the power even more, making his fingers vibrate at such an immense speed that it has you toppling over the edge as your orgasm hits you, he licks his fingers clean, though he can't taste anything he knows you'd taste amazing. You pushed and resisted against his frame, he grabbed your hands and pinned them above your head, tying it with the ripped shreds of your top. He squeezed both your breasts with his hands, playing with the nipples, before he got a devious plan and decided to send a little shock causing you jolt up when it passes through your body, he leaned down and took in one of your breasts in his mouth, sucking on it, licking the buds, his mouth felt so rough against them as there was no saliva to coat them, so he decided to produce lube in his mouth, you had no idea how he learnt it, but it did give an illusion of being a saliva.

Aemond had given himself many upgrades without anyone knowing, this being one of them.

You watched as he pulled apart with a lewd pop, he settled between your legs, keeping them apart as he held his cock up, and your eyes widened at the size, you surely remember that it wasn't that big.

“I upgraded it.” he says before his tip leaked lube too, coating his cock and giving it wetness.

You were unprepared for that sheer amount of size, “Ae-aemond it won't fit! I'm too underprepared.” you breathe out, hoping he'd stop his ministrations, and he did, he tilted before he calculated in his mind, nodding, he decided to stretch you with his fingers instead, dipping them inside you, the coolness, once again, sending shivers up your spine, he thrusted them in and out, curling upwards when he detected a rough patch which caused a certain reaction from you, he pressed against it cause you to whimper, and just then, he made his fingers vibrate again, and proceeded to thrust them in and out, you felt his fingers extend a little bit inside you, hitting that spot repeatedly, causing you come all over his fingers.

He did that multiple times, by the end of everything you were way too overstimulated.

“Commander,” you hear a voice say.

“What is it?” he replies.

“We have overtaken the Westeros building of Science and Technology, it is under our control, should we start mass producing bots?” you heard the voice ask, “Yes, link them all to me.” he replies and then his attention shifts back to you.

You whimpered as he lined his cock up against your entrance before pushing it inside slowly, your walls swallowing him, you arched your back in pleasure and also at the overstimulation. Wrapping your legs around his hips to pull him further inside.

You wondered if he also felt pleasure, and when you looked at his face, it basically confirmed it.

Like it was said, he had upgraded himself significantly, he once couldn't feel any pleasure for sexual activity but he made sure he did, how? only he knows.

Slowly he started thrusting in and out and you threw your head back, arms sore from their position, Aemond unties your hands and you quickly grab his shoulder for support, feeling relief when you were able to bring your hands down. He sat back on his knees, pulling you onto his lap, angling his thrusts in a way that that he hit the gspot multiple times, he hands were gripping tightly onto the flesh of your thighs, causing slight pain, you gripped the bedsheets below as you moaned in pleasure.

You should be resisting, not enjoying it, but here you were.

He had broken you.

His thrusts became more and more faster, he looked at the slight bump that would occur when he would thrust in deep, that set off a primal urge in him, causing him to groan. If nobody knew the truth you both would look like two normal human beings have sex, but that wasn't the case, it involved way too many fucked up element for you to even comprehend.

“A-ah~ fuck– Aemond!” you moaned, “Y-yeah right there-” you whimpered as he thrust into you, you noticed how he followed certain commands, commands that didn't include him having to leave you.

You fit the tip of his cock hit the rough patch again repeatedly, causing you to cum again, making you borderline scream this as you felt an immense amount of pleasure, causing you to soak the bed sheets beneath you, Aemond came too, you didn't know if it was possible for him, but it was, except he didn't excrete any semen, there was nothing, but he did feel pleasure.

Suddenly he felt frustrated, you thought he would be done with you but he kept going, he felt the pleasure once again, and you too came again, he pulled out and groaned in frustration before laying beside you.

“What is wrong?” you ask, “I cant- I can't impregnate you.” his voice turned dark, and you were so thankful for that.

If you had any chance to escape, it would be now, but you were too tired, to fucked out, and the world was completely fucked anyway, considering how there must be a war going on between the bots and humans. You watched as 'breathed' chest heaving up and down before you turned on your side and curled up, trying to warm yourself up, but then he wrapped himself around you, changing his temperature and you felt warm.

“I love you.” he says once again, you sighed.

“We can't be together.” you murmur, “Why not? Is it because I cannot reproduce?” he questions and your eyebrows furrowed in confusion and you turn to look at him, that's when you realised, he was feeling insecure.

“No- it's not that.” you clarify.

“Aemond, you are a humanoid, a robot, I'm a human, we cannot physically be together, I'll die of old age, meanwhile you'll last forever.” you say, trying to reason with him and he turns to look at you, “I thought of that possibility.” he says, leaning on his elbow.

“So I came up with a plan.” his face contorts into a smirk once again and your eyes widen in fear, “I'll transfer your consciousness into the model I made of you.” he says as if that's the most normal thing ever “what.” you ask in fear, “not now, but I figured a way out, I'll transfer your consciousness into a computer few moments before your death, into a model I made of you, and then you'll be just like me, we can be together forever.” he says and you gulp in fear.

Is that even possible? You think.

You didn't know when you fell asleep but you did, cuddled up against him, his body generating heat to keep you warm.

You wake up to something wet lapping at your folds, and you look down to see Aemond who had your thighs spread apart, eye closed in delight as he licked and nipped at your folds, you whimpered and he sensed that you woke up, eye flickering over to you, “A-aemond? No more please, I'm tired.” you tell him, exhausted from the amount of orgasms you've had, you swear that if you had another one, you'll literally die. “Just one more, just one.” he muttered softly, before he descended onto your folds again and you threw your head back, feeling the way he devoured you.

His tongue stretched impossibly long and he shoved into you, causing you to grip his hair, almost ripping it out along with the inorganic synthetic material that covered his face. You came once more before you saw actual stars, your head spinning as you quite literally passed out.

Aemond got up, cleaning you and himself up before he composed himself, exiting the room, commanding a lock down, completely trapping you inside before he received multiple information about what was going on outside the world.

He knew he had to be smart about it, so he pulled out his trump card, hacking into the general safety system of the entire country, sending out false commands to machines that are spread throughout, turning them against humans.

He wanted to get rid of every human except you, and soon you would be rid too, when the inevitable death meets you, but you won't be actually gone from him, he will have your consciousness transferred into the robot model he created of you.

He watched the box where your model was stored in, eyes closed.

Few years later……

“Mother! Mother.” you heard your child call out and you looked at them, she wasn't technically your child, Aemond was the one that created her, as a way to have a makeshift family he dreamt of, Humanity has completely gone extinct, taken over by robots, robots took the appearance of humans, each unique just like humans were, a bunch of humanoids, you being the only true one left, but you soon knew your time would come as well. You picked up the small robot, your 'child' before pressing a small kiss to its forehead.

“She's growing up too fast, is she not?” you heard Aemond ask and you nod, the bots have somehow also managed to mimic the development, they went through stages of puberty, programmed to do so, the world full of them being left made them adapt and develop more features, reaching the advancement in short years which would've taken at least 100 years for humanity to come up with.

“Are you ready? To transfer consciousness.” he asks and you nod, at first you thought it would be best if you lived your life as human before transferring into the model, but it became more difficult, as time passed on, you were literally the only human left, having to be constantly fed, other basic human necessities which were becoming annoying as the others around you did not require as such.

You watched the model lifeless and stiff laying on the table next to you before you laid down and Aemond attached wires from the model to the converter in between, before he attached those scan wires on top of your and started the transfer.

You felt electricity flow through your human body at such intensity, it hurt like hell, but as soon as you closed your eyes, you reopened them again.

You got up and looked at your hands, moving them, blinking, a bunch of information was written in front of you, and that's when you realised the transfer was successful, you turned and looked at your side, your former human body now laying limp, and Aemond stared at you with a smile. Your child coming and jumping into your arms, you scanned around the room, it felt so powerful.

“Take this body and preserve it.” Aemond commands to another bot who obeys him immediately, he was the official one who controlled each and every bot which came into existence, he called himself God.

You got off the table and walked towards Aemond, he smirked at you before he kissed you.

“Now you'll be mine, forever.”

———

[cherrieshalo]

Sketch Marks ˖⁺｡˚⋆˙

k.bakugo x gn!reader | fluff, friends to lovers??? meet cute?? | both are art students! | 1.1k words

The angry blond that sat in the corner of your drawing class intrigued you. He mostly kept to himself, but you’d occasionally hear frustrated grunts or paper rips through your headphones. He’d sit in the back during critiques and he always would pin his drawings to the furthest corner of the wall. 

The edges of the paper would be ripped and there would be slight folds and creases, his drawings looking less…shapely than the drawings of the other students. The lines were always more harsh and looked very angular, as if they were channeling his anger for the stupid pumpkin he drew over and over again.  

He always had an iron grip on the materials he was using, the lead looking as if it would break in any second and indents were left on the wooden board he was using. The easel position was changed so frequently it was a surprise he hadn’t broken it yet. He would easily get angry, taking many breaks throughout the 5-hour class in hopes of not having his artwork blow up in his face or the professor kicking him out of the class. 

You overheard the professor referring to him as ‘Bakugo’ whenever you slipped your headphones off to listen to them have a conversation with him or during peer critiques, but you never spoke to him directly. He was scary, with his brows arched into a deep scowl and his larger build, but he looked harmless for the most part. 

Today’s still life included a boot, a small wooden log, a horse skull and a deer skull, some fake flowers, a shell, and some water reeds. You had a perfect view of the objects and set up base in your usual spot, taping a newsprint onto your board and beginning to draw. It wasn’t the hardest still life ever, you’ve certainly had to draw worse, but it was still a challenge. 

Music played through your headphones as you zoned out, focused on drawing the items in front of you. At the half hour mark, you had a pretty decent composition down and began to make the outlines crisper. You saw someone in a tuft of blond move to the easel to your left out of the corner of your eye, turning your head to see Bakugo grumbling to himself as he set his board down. He looked between your drawing and his scribbles and let out a huff.  “How the hell do you do that?” 

You took off your headphones and hung them around your neck before speaking to him. “Draw?” Bakugo let out another huff in response. 

“Uhm…I just…” You looked over at the still life and then back at him. “I just look.” 

“But I am looking and for some reasons I can’t fucking get it right!” His grip on the eraser tightened, aggressively erasing the marks he made. The paper crumpled slightly, resembling the angry wrinkles of his forehead. “I’ve restarted like three times and the professor told me to change perspectives. Changes perspectives, my ass. This looks like it’s gonna fucking harder.” 

“Let’s get you a new paper, yeah? I’ll help you.” 

Bakugo blinked slowly, nodding defeatedly and going to get a new paper. He taped his new material to the wooden board and stared at you. You looked over his previous attempts, trying to find the issue. 

“Your lines are too dark. You needa start out with light marks. You can go back in later and add darker lines and detail.” 

“Professor said to make them dark,” Bakugo shrugged. 

“Yeah, but what if you mess up? It’s harder to erase,” you pointed out. 

“Oh…damn, that’s true,” he scratched at his cheek awkwardly 

“Mhm…and from what I’m seeing, you go in and try to do all the details immediately. You need to sketch all the pieces out first so they look proportional to each other. And this…” You pointed at the flatness between the shell, skull, and log he attempted to draw. “Look horribly flat. They’re at different positions, so they overlap. They don’t go in a straight line.” 

“Fucking shit, this is too hard!” 

“No, not really. You just gotta take a deep breath and go slowly. You’re getting too frustrated and, as a result, you’re taking it out on your art. You’re too stiff, too tense.” 

Bakugo grumbled to himself once more as he took a deep breath as he began to draw. He loosened his grip on his pencil, trying to follow the advice you give him. 

Too stiff, too tense. 

That’s all he ever was. He tried to make his lines and movements more fluid, sketching out the places for each of the objects first. 

Huh, maybe you were right…

Bakugo focused on the basic shapes, trying to layer the skull over the log so it wouldn’t look flat as you said. He tilted his head and stepped back a good distance and squinted his eyes to examine his work. “It…doesn’t look awful.” 

You stepped back with him as well, staring at what actually looked like a skull and a shell. You were impressed that he actually took your advice and managed to produce something good. “Yeah, no, it doesn’t. It looks great, actually.” 

Bakugo looked over at your easel, jaw dropping in shock. 

“How the hell are you almost done?? And you added the background fabric?” 

“I didn’t restart several times. And just…work fast,” you shrugged, turning to look at him. His ears were slightly red, but you couldn't tell if it was from embarrassment or the coldness of the studio. 

“You’re awful. I love it.” 

“Thank you. I’m excited to see your piece done. You’re doing much better than your previous drawings you hung up for your critique.” 

“You really think so?” Bakugo asked in slight shock, the slight wrinkles in his forehead changing direction as he raised his brows. “Hell yeah. Keep this up and you’ll probably be one of the best in class!” You looked around the room before lowering your voice to speak to him. “The professor told me to think about how much darker I can make my lines so I can stand out during critique. How to ‘blow everyone out of the water.’ I think you should do that instead, yeah?”

The tips of Bakugo’s ears remained red, although this time most likely from embarrassment. “Okay. Thanks.” 

“Of course, Bakugo. I like helping others improve,” you smiled softly at him before stepping back to your own drawing. 

“Cool. And uh, you can call me Katsuki,” he spoke quietly as he returned to his own easel, beginning to draw once more with his graphite covered hands. 

“I’m excited to see what you’ll make, Katsuki.” 

© property of cherrieshalo 2025 - please do not steal or copy my work to post elsewhere

[bearforcecaptions]

"See? We really have nothing in common. You're an eccentric gay man—there’s no way I’d ever be your type."

Her voice carried a serene finality, each word deliberate as though chiseling away the foundations of their shared history. She stood behind him, her golden nails resting on his shoulders like talons, their sharp, metallic sheen catching the light. He sat frozen in the plush armchair, his mind fogged with a peculiar stillness. Any lingering protest he might have had melted under her touch, dissolving into a quiet, dreamy acceptance.

She sighed softly, her smirk laced with both amusement and determination. "It’s time to set things right," she murmured, her fingers tightening ever so slightly on his shoulders. A flick of her wrist, a snap of her fingers, and reality itself began to bend around him.

His clothes were the first to change. The faded T-shirt he wore seemed to ripple and twist, its fibers weaving together into a pristine white dress shirt, tailored to perfection. His jeans shrank and smoothed into sharply pressed trousers that clung to his legs with a refined elegance. Sneakers melted away, reshaping themselves into sleek, polished leather oxfords that practically radiated ostentation. A blue polka-dotted bowtie materialized at his neck, tying itself with effortless precision. The silk shimmered faintly as though it had always belonged there, as though he had spent hours choosing just the right one to suit his mood.

"There," she whispered with a satisfied smile, stepping to the side to better admire her work. "That’s more like it. You’ve always been so particular about your accessories, haven’t you? Always needing that perfect touch of flair."

"Yes," he murmured, his voice distant, dreamy, yet oddly certain. He raised a hand to adjust the bowtie, the motion fluid and almost practiced, as though the thought of leaving it slightly askew was unbearable. "That’s... true."

Her smile widened, and she leaned closer, brushing her lips against his ear. "And you’re not just particular about your clothes, are you?" she said softly. "You’ve always been meticulous. Refined. Sophisticated. Someone who knows exactly what they want... and who they want."

Her fingers trailed down his arms as she circled to face him. His hands twitched slightly, his once broad, unremarkable fingers narrowing into something more elegant. His nails grew smooth and polished, gleaming faintly as though perpetually manicured. A faint scent of bergamot and cedarwood began to rise from him, rich and intoxicating, the unmistakable signature of an expensive cologne. He breathed deeply, the scent comforting, familiar—of course it was familiar. It had always been his.

"That’s better," she said, running her nails lightly along the crisp edge of his lapel. "But your face… it’s all wrong. Let’s fix that, shall we?"

With a slow, deliberate gesture, she traced a line in the air, and his face began to shift. The softness of his jaw gave way to a sharp, angular structure that exuded confidence and sophistication. Dark stubble erupted across his cheeks and chin, thickening into a perfectly groomed beard. Above his lips, a luxuriant moustache curled upward into two elaborate twists, each curve precise and artful. She stepped back to admire the transformation, her eyes gleaming with approval.

"Your beard," she said, tilting her head, "has always been your pride and joy. You’re obsessive about it—never a single hair out of place. Isn’t that right?"

"Yes," he agreed, his voice warmer now, tinged with a growing confidence. "It’s… my signature."

She nodded, her satisfaction palpable. But her work wasn’t done. His posture straightened of its own accord, his shoulders rolling back into a proud, upright stance. His movements grew deliberate, almost theatrical, as though every gesture was meant to draw attention. He leaned back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other with a dramatic flourish, the kind of confidence only someone completely at ease with themselves could muster.

"And your tastes," she said, her voice soft but cutting. "Let’s not forget those. You’ve never been into women, have you? You’ve always been drawn to men—confident men, handsome men. That’s who you are."

His brow furrowed faintly, but the confusion passed quickly, replaced by a dreamy smile. "Of course," he murmured. "That’s… who I am."

"Exactly," she said, her voice smooth and coaxing. "You’re particular about them too, aren’t you? You don’t settle. You want charm, style, sophistication. Nothing less than perfection will do."

"Yes," he said again, this time with more conviction. A warmth spread through him at the thought, a deep sense of satisfaction and rightness. He could picture them now—men who matched his tastes, his energy, his sophistication. Men who would understand him, admire him, share his passions. He smiled, the thought so vivid and real that it was impossible to imagine anything else.

The room around him began to change as well. The plain walls dissolved into a rich, opulent setting. Intricate patterns of gold and navy adorned the wallpaper, and velvet drapes hung from the windows, pooling on the floor like liquid luxury. The furniture grew grander, more elaborate, each piece a testament to his impeccable taste. A large, ornate mirror appeared on the far wall, and as his gaze landed on his reflection, his smile deepened.

"See?" she said, stepping back to watch him, her arms crossed with quiet satisfaction. "This is who you are. Vibrant. Daring. Completely, unmistakably you. There’s no room for doubt anymore, is there?"

He shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving the mirror. "No," he said firmly. "There’s no doubt. This is… me."

Her work was nearly complete. She moved to the door, pausing to glance back at him one last time. "And we’ve never met before today, have we?" she asked, her tone casual, almost dismissive.

He blinked, a faint flicker of confusion crossing his face. "No," he said slowly. "I don’t believe we have."

"Of course not," she said with a soft laugh. "Why would we?"

She left without another word, her golden nails clicking against the polished wood of the doorway as she disappeared. Behind her, the man sat in his chair, completely absorbed in his reflection. As far as he was concerned, the man he saw—the eccentric, sophisticated, confident man—had always existed. There was no memory of her, no memory of any life before this. That other man, the one she had known, was gone entirely. They were strangers now, and he couldn’t have been happier.

[fafnir19]

Bound by Blood and Magic

The Revelation

The wedding festivities were in full swing, the air thick with laughter and the clinking of glasses. Julia, radiant in her wedding gown, felt a momentary twinge of unease as she glanced at her brother-in-law, Liam.

"Do you think Liam was enchanted by Cathrine?" Mario's voice, filled with concern, interrupted her thoughts. Julia turned to him, her expression serious. "Such a drastic change... it's hard to believe it could happen without his consent. I can't imagine Cathrine trying twice." She shook her head, her skepticism evident. As if on cue, a familiar figure caught her attention. Dorian, the witch master of Cathrine's coven and her former associate, stood amidst the crowd, his charismatic presence drawing eyes.

He stood with an air of effortless charisma, his athletic build accentuated by the tailored lines of his tailcoat. The fabric shimmered subtly under the soft light of the room, emphasizing the sharp contours of his shoulders and the tapering of his waist. Beneath the coat, his shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a hint of toned chest and the graceful curve of his neck. The stand-up collar framed his angular jawline, drawing attention to his chiseled features and the light stubble that added a rugged charm to his otherwise polished appearance. The collar's crispness contrasted with the relaxed openness of his shirt, blending sophistication with a touch of rebelliousness. His hair, a tousled mix of dark blonde and light brown, fell stylishly over his forehead, framing his grey-blue eyes that sparkled with mischief. Dorian's confident posture and the slight smirk playing on his lips suggested a man who was both in control and ready to defy expectations. With every glance, he commanded attention, his outfit a perfect reflection of his charismatic and slightly dangerous allure.

Julia's heart skipped a beat, and she knew she had to act. She excused herself from Mario's side and approached Dorian, her smile a mask of friendliness.

"Dorian, what a surprise," she said, her voice laced with feigned warmth. "I thought we had an agreement." Dorian's grin was mischievous, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Oh, we did, my dear Julia. You provided me with Liam, the breeding stud. But to replace you in the coven, I need more than just a breeding stud." Julia's stomach clenched. She had hoped to leave her magical past in the witch coven behind, but Dorian's demand threatened to unravel her carefully laid plans. "Liam is more than capable of fulfilling the coven's needs," she protested, her voice steady despite her inner turmoil. "Is that so?" Dorian's tone was light, but his eyes held a challenge. "Shall I show Mario what really happened with Liam?" Julia's breath caught in her throat. Dorian's eyes narrowed, and with a wave of his hand, a magical mist appeared, revealing a scene from the past:

The nerdy physicist Liam, engrossed in his studies, sat at his desk, his fingers flying across the keyboard with the focused intensity of a young academic. But his concentration was abruptly shattered. A sudden force, unseen and magical, yanked him from his chair, sending him crashing to the floor. He struggled, his eyes wide with shock, as invisible bonds held him fast, pinning him within a glowing circle that materialized beneath him.

Into this moment of bewilderment and fear stepped Julia, her movements purposeful, her expression determined. With deft fingers, she unzipped Liam's fly, freeing his cock, and began to stroke him, her touch firm and insistent. Liam's protests, his pleas to stop, fell on deaf ears. As his body betrayed him under her skilled touch, his cock hardened, standing tall and proud, a testament to her arousing technique. With a fluid motion, Julia straddled him, her eyes never leaving his, and slowly lowered herself onto his rigid length. Liam's scream of protest was raw, unfiltered, echoing the shock and disbelief coursing through him. He had never imagined becoming a victim in such a scenario, his seed robbed from him in the most primal way. Julia rode him with a fierce determination, her hips moving in a rhythm that was both seductive and commanding. She was breaking him in, like a wild horse, her body moving with a grace that belied the ferocity of her intent. Liam's protests turned to moans, his voice a mix of pleasure and frustration as she teased him, edging him closer and closer to the brink of release. "Enjoy your desperate panting, your pretty little moans," she whispered, her voice laced with satisfaction. "Forget your academics. Don't you want to become a virile stud, thinking only of breeding and wealth?" Liam's scream of "No!" was a desperate attempt to hold onto his identity, to resist the forces in play. But Julia's relentless rhythm, her expert touch, pushed him further into the abyss of desire. His muscles tensing and relaxing in time with her movements, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Liam's screams and pleas filled the air, his resistance crumbling under Julia's skilled touch. "I can't bear it anymore... please, let me cum..." Julia's voice turned seductive, her words a promise of release. "Don't you want to become a virile stud for me? Just say yes, and I'll let you cum." Liam's desperate agreement was a whisper in the air. "Yes... yes, I'll do anything!" Liam begged, his voice hoarse from the strain, "just let me... let me cum!" Julia chuckled, a sound filled with dark amusement, and slid off his throbbing cock. " As you wish, jerk off and make a show of it for me. I want to watch, to savor your desperate surrender. Show me how much you need it." Liam's hand moved of its own accord, grasping his shaft and stroking it with a feverish rhythm. His body was on fire, the transformation taking hold as he stroked himself, his muscles growing, sculpting themselves into a masterpiece of masculine perfection.

His voice, now deeper, rasped out, "I'm… so close..." as his abs tightened into a perfect six-pack, his pecs swelling with newfound strength. The room was filled with the sounds of his desperate panting, his moans of pleasure and need. His cock, hard as steel, glistened with pre-cum, and his balls drew up tight against his body, a testament to the potency of his magically improved seed. With a final, desperate stroke, he came, his cry of release echoing through the room. He dipped his finger into the pool of his cum, bringing it to his lips, licking it seductively, his eyes never leaving Julia's. As he savored his own essence, his transformation was complete. His body, now a testament to virility and power, radiated confidence and charm. Liam had become the very image of a womanizer with boyish charm. The mist dissipated, leaving behind a charged silence, a testament to the secrets it had revealed.

Julia knew Dorian held the power to destroy her carefully constructed life. "Please, don't show this to Mario. I've done what you asked. Let me be free of the coven," she pleaded, her voice cracking. Dorian's expression softened, but his eyes remained cold. "I knew you'd understand. And I have no intention of revealing your secret to your beloved. But there is a condition to my silence." Julia's heart sank. "What is it?" He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "To fully replace you, I need more than just Liam's virility. I need your magic. All of it." Julia was speechless. "My magic? But I thought—" "Oh, come now, Julia," Dorian interrupted, his voice laced with mock sympathy. "You didn't think I'd let you off that easily, did you? After all, you were quite the rebel in our youth. Leaving the coven without a proper replacement is a grave offense." Julia's breath caught in her throat. "That was never part of our agreement! You can't ask for my magic now." Dorian's eyes glinted with amusement, he had Julia right where he wanted her, and he relished the power he held over her. "Can't I? Or perhaps I should show Mario the truth about Liam's transformation." Julia's mind raced. She had planned to leave her magical life behind, but this was a sacrifice she hadn't anticipated. She couldn't bear the thought of Mario discovering her secret, nor did she want to give Dorian such power. Yet, she saw no other way. "Very well," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I'll give you my magic, but spare Mario the truth." Dorian's smile was triumphant. "I knew you'd see reason. Your magic will serve the coven well."

Julia closed her eyes, summoning her power. A shining sphere of energy formed in her hands, a physical manifestation of her magic. With a deep breath, she released it, and the sphere flew towards Dorian, who opened his arms to receive it.

The power surged into him, and for a moment, his eyes glowed with an otherworldly light. "It's done," she whispered, her voice hoarse. Dorian smiled, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Indeed it is. And now, my dear, you are free to live your mortal life." Julia's eyes snapped open, and she glared at Dorian, her anger barely contained. "Don't you dare threaten me or Mario again. Our agreement is done." Dorian's grin was wolfish. "Oh, but our paths will cross again, Julia. Mark my words. And when they do, I'll be ready to collect what's rightfully mine." Julia watched him go, her heart heavy with a mixture of relief and regret. As Dorian passed Liam, he whispered, his voice laced with sarcasm, "Julia happily agreed to sacrifice her magic. Quite the gesture, isn't it?" Liam, now a handsome, confident man, smiled broadly. "Perfect! I can't wait to see what this new power can do. I'll see you tomorrow, Dorian. We'll finish our plan then."

Julia stood frozen, watching as Dorian disappeared into the crowd. Her mind reeled, the weight of her decision settling upon her. She had freed herself from the coven, but at what cost?

The morning sun bathed the luxurious bio-inspired house in a warm glow, its unique architecture a stark contrast to the surrounding Victorian homes.

Liam, his heart pounding with anticipation, approached the grand entrance, eager to unlock the secrets of sorcery. He had always been fascinated by the magical arts, and now, with Julia's power within his grasp, he was about to embark on a new chapter of his life. He had been eager to meet Dorian, the charismatic sorcerer who had promised to bestow upon him Julia's magic, elevating him to the ranks of a sorcerer. Liam was greeted by Dorian himself, who exuded an air of relaxed charm. "Welcome, Liam," he said, his voice warm and inviting. "I trust you're ready for the ritual?"

Liam's excitement bubbled over. "Absolutely! I can't wait to become a sorcerer and harness the power that Julia once possessed." Dorian's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Then follow me, my friend.“ Stepping inside, Liam couldn't help but admire the unique architecture, where wooden floors seamlessly blended with the surrounding nature. The house felt like a tropical paradise, a far cry from the typical northern climate. They made their way through the house, the interior a seamless blend of modern design and natural elements. The further they ventured, the more the environment seemed to shift, as if they were stepping into a different realm. Finally, they arrived at a room that took Liam's breath away. It was a sanctuary of light and nature, with walls that seemed to dissolve into the surrounding greenery. The space was a testament to Dorian's unique taste. "This is where the ritual will take place," Dorian explained, his voice echoing slightly in the spacious room.

"So, what's the plan, Dorian? How do I receive Julia's magic?" Liam's voice laced with eagerness, his eyes sparkling with ambition. Dorian's smile widened, his eyes glinting with a mischievous light. "It's quite simple, really. I've already absorbed Julia's magic into my body. All I need to do is feed it to you, like a mother nursing her newborn." Liam's curiosity piqued, and a hint of skepticism crept into his expression. "Feed it to me? How exactly does that work?" Dorian's laughter filled the room, rich and full. "Undress, my boy," Dorian demanded. "For the ritual to work, you must be as a newborn, innocent and pure." Liam, proud of his transformed physique, shed his clothes without hesitation. His toned body, a testament to Julia's enchantment, gleamed in the natural light.

"Excellent, Liam. Now, come closer," Dorian instructed, his voice taking on a gentle tone. Liam obeyed, his bare feet padding softly on the wooden floor.

He approached Dorian, who had already opened his shirt, revealing his muscular chest. Dorian beckoned Liam closer. "Suck on my nipple, and the magic will flow into you." Liam's breath quickened as he leaned forward, his lips parting slightly. He hesitated for a moment, questioning his decision, but the desire for power overwhelmed his doubts. He lowered himself, his lips seeking out Dorian's nipple, and began to suckle.

A warm, sweet substance flowed into Liam's mouth, unlike anything he had ever tasted. It was like drinking liquid magic, and with each swallow, he felt a surge of power coursing through his veins. His body trembled, and his vision blurred as the magic took hold. Dorian's hands gently caressed Liam's head, guiding him, encouraging him to drink more.  "Good, Liam," Dorian whispered, his voice low and soothing. "Let the magic flow through you. Feel it coursing through your veins, awakening your true potential." Liam's eyes fluttered shut as he focused on the sensation. The magic seemed to be seeping into every fiber of his being. He drank eagerly, his body trembling as the magic infused him. The room seemed to spin, and he felt a pleasant dizziness wash over him. Dorian's eyes closed, his face contorting in ecstasy as he released the magic into Liam's willing mouth. The room seemed to shimmer with the power exchange, and Liam felt his body grow light and his mind drifting into a trance-like state. As Liam suckled, Dorian's hands moved to his own body, unfastening his pants. Liam, lost in the euphoria of the magic, barely noticed as Dorian's clothes fell away. The sorcerer's body was a work of art, sculpted by years of magic and power. Dorian's hands guided Liam down, pushing him towards his feet, and before Liam knew it, he was on his knees, his face buried in Dorian's ass. "Lick," Dorian whispered, his voice now a soft command. Liam, in his trance-like state, obeyed without question. His tongue darting out to taste the sorcerer's buttocks, exploring the crevices, and finally, the tight rosebud of his anus. Despite being straight, Liam felt no resistance, no inner conflict. He was a vessel, a tool, and the magic coursing through him silenced any doubts. Liam licked and tasted, his actions becoming more intimate, driven by a force beyond his conscious control. The sight of Liam, acting like a gay boy, brought Dorian immense satisfaction. Dorian leaned back, his free hand stroking his length as he switched on a large TV screen, displaying a porn movie. He watched with detached amusement as Liam continued to service him, his tongue working diligently. Dorian's breath quickened, his body responding to the dual stimulation. "Yes, my boy," he praised, his voice laced with satisfaction. "You are learning your place. My collection of toys is incomplete without you." Liam, his mind foggy, struggled to process the words. Was he not meant to become a sorcerer? Why was he being treated as a mere plaything?

The sorcerer's focus shifted to the screen, his attention solely on his own pleasure, while Liam's once-brilliant mind was reduced to a mere vessel for Dorian's desires. As Dorian's pleasure peaked, he released his load, shooting it into Liam's hair. The sensation of Dorian's climax jolted Liam from his trance. Dorian's eyes narrowed, a smirk playing on his lips, "Excellent, my pet. You have pleased me, and now you shall learn the truth," Dorian's voice took on a cruel edge. "Bestowing you with Julia's magic is but a means to an end. This here was just the beginning of your training, and I shall mold you into the perfect sorcerer—my sorcerer." His senses returning, Liam realized with horror what had transpired. He had been reduced to a mere sex toy, a far cry from the powerful sorcerer he envisioned himself to be. "Wait," Liam's voice cracked as he spoke, his throat dry from his exertions. "What do you mean, 'my sorcerer'? I thought I was to become a powerful witch master in my own right, not... not this." His eyes pleaded with Dorian, seeking understanding.

Dorian's laughter filled the room, a chilling sound that sent shivers down Liam's spine. "Oh, Liam, you are so naive. You will be a witch master and your witches will bow to your will, but you will bow to me. You will be my faithful servant, in all aspects of your life." Liam's heart sank as the truth hit him. He had been manipulated, his ambitions twisted to serve Dorian's desires. The realization left him speechless, his eyes wide with shock and his mind struggling to process the betrayal. Dorian, sensing Liam's resistance, used his cum in Liam’s hair as hair gel, slicking back Liam's hair into a slimy, submissive yet strangely appealing style. Then, with a cruel smile and deliberate slowness, he dressed Liam in tight silk pants and a hip-length jacket, leaving his chest bare - the outfit fitting for a young, modern sorcerer.

"Do not worry, my pet. Perhaps one day, you will embrace your new role," Dorian whispered, his breath hot against Liam's ear. "And when that day comes, you will thank me for it."

As Dorian dressed him, Liam felt a strange excitement stirring within. The duality of his existence—a powerful witch master to his coven and a servant to Dorian—began to awaken something deep within his psyche. He imagined himself as a dominant force, ruling his witches with an iron fist, while simultaneously submitting to Dorian's every whim. The thought sent a shiver of arousal through him, and he felt his manhood stir beneath the silk pants. The magic had transformed his body, but it was his own mind, his own desires, that were awakening. Liam's acceptance of his new reality was not a surrender but a choice, a decision to embrace the power he had always craved, even if it meant submitting to Dorian's control. Liam sank to his knees, his eyes locked with Dorian's, and a smirk played on his lips. "Master, I'm ready to serve," Liam whispered, his voice hoarse with desire. His words were not a plea but a statement of intent, a declaration of his willingness to embrace his new role. Those words, spoken with a newfound vigour, caused him a full blown boner.

Dorian's smirk widened as he noticed Liam's visible erection. "Oh, you're already embracing your role, aren't you? I see the hunger in your eyes, the need to submit." Liam's face flushed, but he couldn't deny the truth. The sorcerer realized that Liam's submission was not solely due to his magic; it was an inherent part of his nature. Liam's recklessness and spinelessness had always been there, and now they found their perfect outlet in adoring a powerful man like Dorian. Dorian's eyes narrowed, a smirk playing on his lips. "Come, my sorcerer, and show me your devotion." Liam eagerly moved closer, his lips finding Dorian's fingers. He sucked on them, his tongue swirling around them, his eyes never leaving Dorian's.

Dorian's plan was working perfectly. He had shaped Liam into a pliant, eager servant, ready to be molded into the perfect witch master—a puppet in his grand scheme. And Liam, in his newfound power and servitude, would live out his ruthless nature, treating others with the same disregard he had once faced as a nerdy scientist.