#i spent the last few hours of my night drawing this instead of other things cuz they were making me angry

[volvolts]

this is it. this is the ship dynamic

[gojonanami]

❝ 𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐓 𝐀𝐅𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐒 ❞

❝ BEING PROF. GETO'S T.A. IS SO HARD BECAUSE HE'S SO HOT!! ❞

✧ pairing: professor!geto x f!reader (part two of the prof geto series)

✧ summary: you're now professor geto's t.a. for the semester, forced to spend time with the man that you so desperately want, either of you barely able to hold back when you're around the other, so what happens when you're forced to go to a conference with him...and there's only one bed.

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, a lot of smut (mostly fantasy), depictions of student/teacher relationship (only ok in fiction not irl!!!), reader is a grad student in my mind, but age is vague, so much mutual pining, bed sharing, cuddling, masturbation (f + m), oral (m! receiving), fingering (f! receiving), sex (p in v), semi public sex (sorta), office sex (kinda), amateur's take on moral philosophy and ethics, art by @/nino84391425

✧ wc: 16,821 (apparently i am writing a novel lol) | part one | part three | part four

“On time for once?” Professor Suguru Geto remarks without looking up from his notes on the podium, even as your footsteps echo in the empty lecture hall, “color me surprised,” 

“Couldn’t be late on my first day as a teacher’s assistant, now could I?” and his lips curl in that damnable smile, as he finally glances up from his notes to see you looking far too gorgeous in his button up — one you had oh so generously relieved him of last night, pilfered away in your bag seemingly. 

“But you could be late on your first day as a student?” and you lick your lips, as you draw closer to him, “seems like you’re quite the hypocrite, not very ethical,” 

“Don’t think what we did last night was very ethical either,” you murmur, enjoying the way his dark eyes glaze over for a moment with the thoughts what you both did — the places touched, the moans heard, and the pleasure had — “plus, I definitely have an incentive to be on time now,” your fingers graze his, and why does his touch always feel like coming home. 

“And what’s that, sweetheart?” he murmurs, running the back of his hand against your cheek. 

“Your gorgeous face,” you smile, leaning close as your lips brush, “and some stolen kisses before class,” 

“And what makes you think you’ve earned them, my favorite student?” He teases, as his fingers slide to the back of your neck, and his other hand snakes around your waist, tugging you close. 

“Oh, I have a few ways to earn them, Professor,” your fingers drag down his chest, “but I don’t know if we have the time before class to—“ 

And his lips find yours — needy and bruising, as your fingers clutch at his shirt, the pressed fabric now definitely creased under your touch, “we’ll make time,” he murmurs, as he leans back to drag his thumb down your plush lips, “I still have many things to teach you, and what time is there like the present?” 

He’s leaning down to press a kiss to your lips— 

RING. RING. RING. 

Your eyes snap open, a groan crawls its way out of your throat, as you fumble for your phone to silence the dreaded ringing. You lie back on your bed, a distinct ache between your legs that makes you squirm, and only want to bury yourself back into your bed and possibly the reality that existed within only your dreams. 

But this was sadly reality, and you had about two hours before your first class as a teacher’s assistant for Professor Suguru Geto’s ethics and moral philosophy class. And two hours before you would see Professor Geto for the first time since you had made out. 

You turn over, pressing your face into your pillow. You wondered if you tried hard enough, if you could suffocate yourself before then. 

Probably not. That would be far too lucky. 

~~~

Professor Suguru Geto couldn’t sleep — instead he spent his time staring at his ceiling, the blades of his fans spinning above him, just like his mind was — in circles. It was as if he almost didn’t want to risk his dreams taunting him, it was the same reason he had buried himself in research over the semester break, the same reason he had put off emailing you the materials for the semester, and the same reason he hadn’t seen you since that day you had kissed. 

It was too much of a risk. 

You were risk personified, even for a risk averse theologian he liked to think himself as. But you were the thing of myths, the dangled food for Tantalus, the far too warm sun for Icarus, and the promise of gold for King Midas. But you were not a myth — you were real, his student made of flesh and bone, the same flesh he had pressed into his desk just a few short weeks ago, his legs parting your thighs, his fingers itching to rip your pantyhose off your legs— 

He sighed, this wasn’t helping — his bedside clock blinked back at him mockingly — he only had a few hours before his first class. He should try to sleep even a little. So he did, shutting his eyes, and hoped he wouldn’t dream of you. 

But he couldn’t possibly be that lucky. 

How many times have you stood in front of this office door? Your Professor, to which this office belongs, would joke that it was far too many to count — and you’d be better speculating how many times that Sisyphus rolled the boulder up the same hill. But the last time you had been in it was the thing that made you hesitate now. 

But that was your entire relationship wasn’t it? A game of chicken, wondering who would hesitate first — and neither of you were the type to hold back. Except when it came to this — except when it came to your feelings for the other. 

You shake your head, trying to shake your anxious thoughts free of their eternal bounce around your skull, and grit your teeth before finally knocking. 

“I’m actually right here,” a voice behind you says, making you jump, as you whip around, nearly pressed against his office door. And now you stood face to face with the man who owned it.

And how was it that every time you saw him, he was achingly more perfect than the time before? His ebony hair was half down, black locks brushing against his shoulders, the rest tied up in a neat bun. A crisp white button up underneath a neutral toned knit sweater vest, the shirt very much like the one you had stolen in your dream. 

Perfect. 

“Professor Geto,” you offer a small smile, trying your best to keep your eyes on his, instead of drifting over his form, “it’s good to see you,” 

“It’s good to see you as well, and so prompt,” he says, brushing past you to unlock his office, “made a habit of being on time these days?” 

“Well, when your professor reprimands you in front of the entire class, you try to make a habit of being on time,” why did it feel like your dream was repeating yet again? It’s not as if your relationship with him wasn’t cyclical enough — life imitating dreams was almost far too much. He opens the door for you, letting you enter first, before he follows you in, “and aren’t you the late one this time?” 

His lips quirk, as he rounds his desk, and takes a seat, “You really can’t make it a conversation with me without giving me shit, huh?” 

“Language,” you chide, as you sit across from him, “not very appropriate for an academic setting,” and you have to bite back the want to say that you’ve done plenty of inappropriate things in this office the last time you both were here. 

“Well, our track record isn’t known for being very appropriate, now is it?” Or maybe you didn’t need to say it, because the way he was looking at you told you everything you needed to know. But that didn’t mean either of you would act on it. He licked his lips, mouth parted to say something, his gaze heavy. 

And the moment is broken when his email goes off — you squeeze your bag a little tighter, as you busy yourself with digging through your bag for the materials to go over. That sound was nearly traumatizing in this office, not only did it usually signal the start of some assignment you had to trudge your way through — it also was the sound that had ended your relationship before it even really began. 

“Class starts in an hour, so I thought we could have this meeting just to review the syllabus and see if you have any questions — as well as just overall any questions you had about being a T.A.,” he explains, pressing his pen to his lips, “I understand this is your first time being a T.A.?” 

“It is, I hadn’t really considered it until the department head approached me about that,” and he nods, a flash of emotion that surfaces for only a moment before dissipating, “what will my responsibilities be?” 

“Good question,” a smile pulls the corners of his lips, “obviously, as a T.A., you will have office hours that you can decide with your own discretion—” 

“So it’s okay if I have them once a month at 3:00 AM?” and he rolls his eyes as you bite your lip at the sight — why was everything he did so effortlessly attractive? 

Fucking unfair. 

“Witching hour, how apt,” he murmurs, as he tilts his head, “but they should be weekly, as I’m sure you know, and held not in the middle of the night, when nights should be used for other things,” and you have to bite back your reply, like what? 

And then he continues to explain, “You can also help with some grading — mostly entering grades online for me since you know I love to handgrade,” 

“Oh yes, truly enjoyed having my self-esteem cut to shreds after receiving a paper back,” you scribbled notes down in your notebook, “glad I won’t be on the receiving end this time,” 

“If you’re good, that is,” and you knew it slipped from his lips — from the way his lips parted, the way his body froze for half a second as if he had shocked himself — and he had, because the spark between you two remained, a weed stubbornly cracking through concrete, “sorry—’ 

“You don’t have apologize,” you shake your head, waving him off, “it’s really fine,” 

“It’s not,” he said softly, placing the syllabus down on the desk, “I know we agreed to keep our relationship professional,” 

“We did,” Yes, you both did — sort of. 

“And I want us to do that—” 

And you ask the question you weren’t brave enough to ask the last time you two had seen each other, “Why is that again?” 

When the email had come, it was as if a spell had broken — the rosy colored lenses had come off, only to leave the hard glare of reality behind. Your limbs still entangled while you both reread the email off of his screen — as if it would say something different the millionth time over. 

It didn’t. 

And then the awkward clamor of disengaging, slow limbs pulling apart, as the warmth of his embrace left as quickly as it had come. Silence as the two of you let the news settle in, like a noose tightening around your necks, and you slowly slid off his desk. 

“If I’m your T.A.,” you had said slowly, adjusting the skirt of your dress, “we can’t do this, can we?” and he had only nodded, his gaze unable meet yours, fixed to the rug on the floor of his office, and he could only muster two words as you brushed past him and gathered your things—

“I’m sorry.” 

But even so, you couldn’t remember why it was a bad idea? Why was it so wrong for the two of you to do this? What difference did it make that you were his T.A.? It was still against the rules either way — it was still unethical either way — so why, why did it matter? 

But he knew why, from the way his brow creased with lines and his lips pursed and the way his eyes yet again couldn’t quite reach yours — as if you’d spot something in them that he didn’t want to see. 

“Because we’re going to working together all semester long, with students in class who will see us each week,” he licked his lips, leaning back in his chair, “because it was already problematic if we saw each other without any classes or connection, but now — if you’re my T.A. and my girlfriend, how would I even properly supervise you?” and he swallows, adam’s apple bobbing as he blows air through his teeth, before his voice grows softer, “how would I focus on guiding you and our students if I’m too busy gazing into your eyes or staring at your lips or wanting to—” he cuts himself off, “you know it’s not a good idea,  most of our students probably wouldn’t notice, but rumors spread and it takes one good rumor to ruin your career,” and he adds, “with how things work, you don’t need me to tell you why it would be worse for you than me, even if I tried to take responsibility,” 

And you did know, knew very well that rumors got out that the two of you were together that nothing would happen to his reputation — perhaps he would be scrutinized a bit more, some judgment and side-eye from other professors and higher ups, but he wouldn’t get vilified like you would. Called a slut or a whore — and those would be some of the kinder names you’d be called, and you can’t imagine what it would do for your career, especially if you stay in academia. And then the rumors would fester and grow, more wondering where your grades came from — whether you had obtained them through honeyed words whispered over pillows and rumpled sheets instead through late nights spent at your desk and weekends practically living at the library. 

“I do know,” you said quietly. But it didn’t mean you wanted to do it anymore than you had that day. A part of you wished he had stopped you when you had turned to leave his office, grabbed your wrist, and pulled you into his arms—but this was hardly a romance novel, “and you’re right,” 

He still has his gaze fixed anywhere but your face, settling his syllabus on his desk now, the silence familiarly filling the room yet again, muscles tense if your body didn’t know whether to flee or to draw closer. 

So you did neither, and instead broke the silence. 

“So would T.A.-ing provide an opportunity for me to teach the class?” and he blinks, eyes snapping up now, as a glimpse of sadness slips away behind his now thoughtful expression. 

“Would you want to do that? I don’t know if I could allow you to lead an entire class, only because some students may take some issue with another grad student teaching them—” 

“I don’t blame them with the tuition costs,” you mutter, and he nods, “don’t nod, it’s your salary I’m paying for,” 

He laughs, a noise you wished you could bottle because you knew it’d be the same as bottling happiness, “Well worth your money after how much your writing and understanding of moral philosophy and ethics has improved,” and you roll your eyes. 

“I see your ego is the same as ever,” and his lips curl, as he crosses his legs, and you fight the cruel temptation of your gaze flickering a little downward. 

“Well, Kant did say an ego is necessary to understand the world meaningfully and therefore act in a moral way,”  you tilt your head, being defensive with philosophy? That was a new one. 

But you weren’t one to let things go — as he very well knew. 

“And he also said that an ego can lead you astray from living a moral life if we become too self absorbed,” and he raises an eyebrow. 

“Are you calling me self absorbed?” 

You bite back a laugh, “Well, you are certainly self interested,” and you gesture around his office, “look at this office,” 

“What about my office?” he gapes at you, and you snort, you’ve seemingly struck a nerve by how wide his jaw dropped. 

“It’s a little…pretentious,” and dare you say it, your professor had a touch of pink painted across his cheekbones and the tips of his ears, 

God he’s even pretty when he blushes. 

“I’m just teasing Professor,” and then you add, “it’s one of my more tedious qualities,” 

And he blinks, before his lips curl in the smile you never tired of seeing, “not tedious, more irritating,” 

You chuckle, before trying to get back on topic, “So you think you could work out me teaching a part of the class?” 

And he nods, “Let me discuss it with the department head — it should be fine,”

“Do I have any other responsibilities?” 

“If it doesn’t conflict with your schedule, you can also attend some classes, students can stay after and ask you questions as well,” and you nod, looking over his class times in the syllabus. 

“I can make the Tuesday one,” and he makes a note, as you rise, “we should go. Don’t want to be late for the first class now do we?” 

And he smiles the same damnable smile, “That would be a terrible first impression,” and his shoulder brushes yours as he opens his office door for you, “after you,” 

God, you thought as you stepped past him, the warmth from the brush of his body still there, this was going to be a long semester. 

If there was one thing you had learned from being a teacher’s assistant for Professor Geto’s class, it was that the students were even more desperate for your professor’s attention than you had thought. You thought your introduction had went relatively well — besides the pointed glares of several….enthusiastic students. 

After his detailed overview of the class, he reaches the resources section of the course syllabus, “Now, I am available at my listed office hours, in which you can make an appointment online. There’s also tutoring services through the university listed as well. And lastly, we have a T.A. for this class, for the very first time,” and he smiles, “Class, please meet your T.A. for this semester,” Professor Geto says your name and gestures to you, sat up in the corner of the lecture hall, and you stand, waving, “your T.A. took this very class last semester and showed great grit and dedication in the class assignments,” you have to stop yourself from shooting him a look, but you can see a hint of a smile on his lips, “She is also a philosophy student, so please, feel free to reach out to her,” 

“Thank you Professor Geto for that…generous introduction,” your pause was slight enough that he caught it, a smile tucked behind an all too fake cough, “I really look forward to working with you all — this class truly had a great impact on my perspective about the world,” and you catch a flicker of an emotion ripple across his face out of the corner of your eye, “my office hours will be posted soon, and I hope we can get to know each other well over the course of this semester.” 

You sit as the students cast their gaze forward again, and the class continues on as usual. You make use of your time by reading for some of your other classes, until class was over. 

And that’s when you really learned something. As requested, you joined Professor Geto at the bottom of the lecture hall to help field questions from the students. 

Except, the students were far more interested in Professor Geto than they were in the course material. 

But maybe it was simply because it was the beginning of the semester right? It couldn’t happen again right? 

It was a good thing you weren’t getting graded because you would earned yourself a zero. As again, the next week, students were only interested in Professor Geto — whether it was because it was for his intellect or — you glanced at the students mooning over him — something else. 

Something you knew very well. 

You were forced to watch a female student flutter her eyelashes, then another brush against him, as she showed him what passage was confusing her, and then another student couldn’t stop staring at his lips. And then you wonder, if it had been another student who kept pestering him week after week, would it have been them instead of you? Would they have shared those moments together? Maybe even they would actually gotten to be in a relationship, instead of watching other people flirt with him—

“Excuse me,” your eyes snap up from your reverie and you see two students, seemingly waiting to speak to you. 

Those students had seemingly taken pity on you and spoke to you about the class, tips, and asked about your office hours. But soon enough, the students filed out one by one until it was just you and Professor Geto. And he’s collecting his things, as he glances at you, lingering still as you check your email on your phone, “Don’t you have class after this?” 

You blink, “how’d you know that?” 

And he’s straightening his notes to place back in his bag, before he turns to look at you over his shoulder, “well you’d always rush off after class so it was either you had class or you didn’t want to be alone with me,” he looks back to his bag and you hear the click of the zipper, “I was hoping it would be the former,” he adds. 

“Well, I never lingered after class when I was taking it either,” you adjust your bag, toying with the strap — why was it anytime you were with him it felt like stepping into quicksand, the more you struggled, the more you sunk — and even if you didn’t move at all, you were still stuck all the same, “didn’t want to get in the way your students stroking your ego,” 

And he raises an eyebrow, “Are we back to my ego again?” 

“I don’t see you shying away from smiles and praise from your students,” and his brow knits together, as he places his bag down on the podium, “no wonder your ego is so large,” 

“What students?” 

“Oh please, the ones swarming your desk after clsss. Didn’t you ever wonder why so many students from different disciplines take your class?” he opens his mouth and then you add, “and don’t say philosophy and ethics apply to every aspect of life,” 

And then he seems to consider the thought, as before his lips curl, as he leans against the podium. 

“Am I detecting some jealousy?” he smirks, and you pause before you scoff — far too quickly. 

“No,” and he only smiles wider. 

He chuckles, “That was convincing. I’m glad your ability to teach is much better than your ability to lie,” 

“I’m not—“ 

“Jealous or not,” and you have to bite back your retort, his gaze freezing you in place, a softness you hated to see — because you didnt know whether it made you want to push him away or pull him close, “there’s only ever been one student who caught my eyes,” 

Ah, there is was — you were sinking again. 

“Really?” you mumble, crossing your arms, “not even one other? You have a habit of unethical behavior for an ethics professor,” 

He’s grabbing his bag, before he’s taking a step forward to whisper, “Only when it comes to you,” and you have to force yourself not shiver at his words warming your skin, “I’ll see you next week,” 

And he’s gone — as you stand in the empty lecture hall next to the podium, the very one from your first dream— and you’re right back where you started. 

Professor Suguru Geto wasn’t the type to make mistakes. He was always meticulous and methodical — he used the very principles to help guide his life — because it gave him a moral framework, a way to interpret the world and his own actions. That’s what had drawn him to ethics in the first place. But then he met you. 

And it seems like he’s made nothing but mistakes since. 

He sat in his office after he practically fled the classroom, forcing his pace to be normal, hoping you didn’t see the flush on his face. Fuck, he tossed the pen he had picked up to start grading away, what was he doing? 

He had told himself it was for the best — again and again when he watches you leave at the end of the last semester. He held his muscles taut as he watched you gather your things, stepping over the crushed pieces of both of your hearts. The two words he had barely choked were the only ones he could manage before he watched his office door shut behind you. 

It was for the best. It was for the best. It was for the best. 

That sentence was on repeat in his mind as he tried to work on his paper over the break — “try” being the operative word. It felt as if even his work hadn't been untouched by you — your impact widespread and all consuming — just as your actual touch was. 

Fuck, he rakes his fingers through his hair, how was he going to survive this week much less this semester? 

He couldn’t afford to be selfish — for your sake and his own. But it didn’t mean he didn’t want to be. He runs a hand over his face — he all but blatantly admitted that he had feelings for you after class. After promising to keep things professional — he was the worst. 

He only wished he was worse enough to do what you both wanted when you asked him in his office why you both couldn’t be together. He wanted to tell you the reasons why you should be — because he couldn’t stop thinking about you despite never seeing you over the break, his heart nearly stopped when he saw you standing in front of his office, and because he couldn’t help but smile when he could see you hesitating in front of the door — but he couldn’t help but smile when it came to you. But he didn’t. 

He couldn’t. 

But he also couldn’t help but toe that damn line in the sand, the one that he had drawn, but the one so desperately wanted to cross. 

And then there was a knock at his door, he sighs, “Come in,” 

The department head enters his office, as Suguru blinks before he gets to his feet to offer his hand, as they exchange greetings, before gesturing for him to sit, “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“I saw your email about having your T.A. teach part of your class, and I wanted to get a little more detail about it,” Suguru nods, his face composed, but his body tense — paranoia scratching at the back of his mind, no one happened to see them kiss had they? No one was on campus really at that point. And the door was closed — he probably just wanted more information.  

“What questions did you have?” and the department head runs down his list — what topic would you cover? How much class time would it take? Would he be asking the class first? Would he review your materials beforehand? 

“Well, you both seemed to have thought a lot about this,” he leans back, crossing his leg over the other, “I think having her teach a part of a class is fine, but I would like you both to do it sooner rather than later,” and Suguru opens his mouth, but then he adds, “and I’d like to attend that class,” 

Suguru tilts his head, “You would like to attend my class?” He considers his words carefully, “I was under the impression, based on the rules, the only thing needed to allow a T.A. to teach was the approval of the department head,” his anxiety begins to pick away at his nerves, “it’s not unusual for a T.A. to teach here correct?” 

It was his first time having a teacher’s assistant at this university so perhaps this was a quality check? To ensure both you and him were meeting the standards of the university — and his anxiety added, and to make sure no rules were being broken by either of you. 

“Yes, it’s not unusual, and I have my reasons which I’ll discuss with you after the class,” he checks the time and rises from his seat now, “I have another meeting soon — do you think she can present in two weeks?” 

Suguru hesitates, “I’ll have to ask her but most likely that should be fine,” 

“Okay please send an email cc’ing her and confirm the details,” he says his goodbyes, and he’s gone, as Suguru sits and considers this — what could he be planning? 

Or, his nerves add, what could he be looking for? 

Either way, he pulled up your email — it was going to be an interesting two weeks. 

“Deontology determines whether an action is right or wrong based on a set of rules and principles instead of the consequences of the actions,” you speak to an empty lecture hall, your voice echoing in the silence, “therefore an act that isn’t morally good can lead to a good outcome,” 

You had come into the lecture hall to practice yet again this week. You were cursing your past self for inflicting this optional task on yourself — it had taken far more time than you had expected (what’s new?), taken far more preparation than you thought (again, of course), and now had the fun added pressure of the department head attending. And why was he attending? A wonderful and complete mystery. 

The last two weeks have been amazing for your mental health, truly. 

You were lucky the lecture hall and the building at large was deserted at 8:00 PM — all of the staff and students had all but fled, and you were left with the perfect place to practice. It had been many nights of honing your presentation to the allotted time, leaving time to pose a thought exercise, time to discuss, and for questions. 

You don’t see the door behind you open, nor do you hear it close, as you use the clicker to go through your PowerPoint, switching to the next slide. 

“For example, killing an intruder, based on the consequence would be wrong, as I hope we all know killing is wrong — otherwise, I worry about what will happen when you get your grades back,” you give a brief chuckle — and hope some of the students would pity you with some laughs, and that’s when you hear a small laugh behind you. 

Your head snaps around, flushing when you see Professor Geto standing by the door. He’s wearing a deep royal purple button up and gray slacks, the sleeves rolled up exposing his forearms. 

God, this wasn’t a dream was it? 

“Don’t let me stop you,” he says, his footsteps against the floor grew closer, and your body tenses, until they stop, “go on,” and he leans against the wall behind you. 

“But when you do kill an intruder to protect your family, that’s viewed as right under deontology,” and you can’t focus with his gaze running over you, an all familiar feeling settled over you. Would life imitate dreams again? Would he come over and ask you to continue your presentation as his lips pressed gentle kisses to your neck and shoulder? Would he— 

“Are you okay?” he asks, and you can’t meet his gaze, but you hear his footsteps, “should I go?” 

“No, no, it’s just,” you shake your head, “a little deja vu,” 

He raises an eyebrow, “deja vu?” 

Your blood runs cold. Fuck. 

“I don’t recall you ever presenting like this in my clsss before,” you can't decide if his voice is more thick with confusion or curiosity. 

“Yeah, no, sorry it’s nothing,” you brush him off, your eyes fixed on your notes on the podium, and you know he’s still staring, “what?” 

“I see you’re still not a very good liar,” and you scoff, “what is it that’s gotten you so bothered?” 

“Nothing,” you insist. 

“The more you say that, the less I’m convinced,” and now he’s walking closer, closer still — but you’re fixed in place, “what is it?”

“You never let anything go, do you?” And you turn, your breath catching when you saw how close he was — inches from you, his pretty eyes wide at the sudden movement, his breath warming your lips. Black strands fall in his face, and you have to stop yourself from tucking them behind his ear. Stop yourself from wanting to touch him, stop yourself from wanting him to lean forward, stop yourself from wanting him. 

Nothing good ever came from your want. 

“Only when it’s you,” but this man makes it impossible not to want him. Not when his voice is soft, not when the back of his finger, a knuckle brushes against your cheek. And no words are needed — you can hear it in the silence between you both, you feel it in the gentleness of his touch, and in the softness of his gaze. 

And you know you’re in love with him. You are.

But you can’t be. 

“I’m not telling you,” you murmur, looking away — and it seems to break the spell, as he steps back, nodding, a flicker of sadness that slips away under his facade,  “but maybe I will sometime, over a drink,” you add. 

A smile tugs at his lips, “Well we know how well that went, or didn’t go rather, and you know, we can’t anytime soon,” 

“Well sometimes an action that isn’t morally good can lead to a good outcome,” and he raises an eyebrow. 

“Using deontology to convince me?” He tilts his head, “not a bad strategy — maybe I’ll have you write a paper,” 

“And willingly subject myself to your red pen? No thanks,” and he snorts, before the smile fades into a frown, brow wrinkled in thought, “what is it?” 

“Nothing, I’m just…” he crossss his arms, “I’m wondering why the department head wants to observe your presentation,” 

“He didn’t give any indication why?” and he shakes his head, “maybe he just wants to evaluate how good a job you’re doing,” you add, “you are relatively green,” 

“Not that green,” and you see his lips pressed together — and is he? — he was — he was pouting. You bite your lip how fucking adorable — but you know you’d be met with a scowl if you said that out loud, “don’t you worry that the dean may suspect something between us?” 

The thought had crossed your mind, but class had been nothing but professional so far, and you’d be too busy sweating bullets (and perhaps dodging them from the students if the presentation went poorly) to even consider your feelings for him. 

You sigh, “Look, nothing to do but get through it, right? It should be fine, we’ll deal with whatever comes after. As long as I don’t choke, and you don’t stare at me too adoringly, we should be fine,” 

And you expect a retort, a cheeky reply, or even a quite sarcastic one, but he only gives a small smile, “Right,”

You feel your cheeks burn and you can’t meet his gaze again without feeling your heart flutter. 

Fuck — maybe there was something to worry about. 

Despite the concerns, the presentation goes off without a hitch. You spot the dean sitting in the corner of the lecture hall, pen and notepad in hand, which did nothing to soothe your poor heart (nor did the far too many cups of coffee and the total lack of sleep). 

It happened quick — a blur of speaking, forcing yourself to slow your words down, a necessity when presenting — as you knew you always spoke faster than you believed you did when presenting. You think you even made the students laugh a few times, led an interesting thought experiment with a rousing debate that ended with no clear answer (as always), and then you answered questions. 

All the while, Professor Geto stood in the back, and you’d catch a glimpse of him by the corner of your eye, his lips curled in that smile that haunted all your nights and days. 

By the time it was done, you had barely realized time had gone so quickly, as you passed the metaphorical baton back to Geto. And you took a seat off to the side, opting to watch him lecture, rather than busy yourself with other work. 

It felt like old times, you thought, as you watched him speak. You couldn’t blame the people that took his class just to watch him speak — he was unfairly beautiful when he spoke, gesticulating as he read a Kant quote. And you kept your face as neutral as possible, but he catches your eye for a moment, corner of his lip twitching upwards. And a flush settles over your cheeks, as you discreetly press your thighs together, trying to look suddenly engrossed with your notebook. 

Your heart ached as much as your body did. You wanted to walk over and just kiss him, swallow his smart words along with his gasp, and feel those hands run along your body. You wanted to know every thought in his head, every part of his day, and fall asleep beside him. 

You glance up to see him still speaking — a black strand falling in his face. You bite your lip, before looking back down. 

This man would be the death of you — and it was even worse being alone with him. You’re thankful that your T.A. check-ins with him were every other week, because you couldn’t imagine having to spend more than an hour with him every other week. 

“You want us to do what?” You blink at the Dean, his lips curled in a smile, his hands tucked into his pockets. 

“Apologies for all the secrecy, I did not receive confirmation about this until earlier today,” he explains, “but I want you two to attend this conference on ethics and philosophy  — it’s over the weekend, two weekends from now. It would be a wonderful opportunity for the both of you to make connections and attend presentations, as well as mingle with prospective students. It would also afford us an opportunity for both of you to help put our university on the map,” 

You glance at Professor Geto, his lips parted in surprise, “Sir, is it appropriate for a male professor and a—“ 

“Don’t worry, the accommodations will be separate and it’s a public event, as long as everything remains professional, there’s no problem, right? As long as you two are okay with it and there’s no problem,” he glances between the two of you, “is there a problem?” 

And Professor Geto’s eyebrows knit together. It was a lose-lose situation — saying no meant raising some suspicions that there was an issue between the two of you, but saying yes meant going on a trip with the same professor you had kissed at the end of the last semester. And if anything happened on this trip...it could be very bad — ethically and otherwise. 

So you make the decision for both of you. 

“That’s fine. I’m happy to attend if Professor Geto is,” and you know you have no choice — you had to spend the weekend with him, alone. At a conference. In a hotel.

“Do you have everything?” Professor Geto asks, as you hand him your suitcase, your fingers brushing as you do.  He lifts your suitcase into the trunk of his car, his black t-shirt riding up as he does, a quick flash of the expanse of his muscles—

Fuck, you bite your lip, stop, stop. Professor. He’s a professor. 

It didn’t matter that you had felt him part your thighs, as his lips slid against yours, nor that every time you saw each other, you felt this undeniable ache to touch him, comfort him, hug him, nor that you knew he felt the same and wanted to give in as badly as you did—

No, it didn’t matter. 

You consider his question, scrunching up your face in thought, “I think so, wait,” you snap your fingers as he glances at you, “forgot the rest of my apartment upstairs — you think that’ll fit in there too?” 

He smirks, rolling his eyes as shuts the trunk, “Ha, ha, ever consider becoming a comedian instead of a philosophy major?”

“Every day, but then I think what would my favorite professor do without me?” 

He raises an eyebrow, “I’m your favorite?” 

“Who said it was you?” you grin at him, as he shakes his head and you open the passenger door seat and slide in, as he slips into the driver’s seat. He adjusts his mirrors, buckling his seatbelt, as a sudden wave of guilt bombards you. You had dragged him down this rabbit hole with you — and now the two of you had to spend the entire weekend together, alone. 

You lick your far too dry lips, “Sorry if I roped you into this,” you fidget with your phone, tapping on the screen absentmindedly. 

He starts the car, engine roaring underneath your feet, before he glances at you, brow furrowed in seeming confusion, “What? It’s not you that roped us into this,” 

You purse your lips, “But if I didn’t agree to it—“ 

He sighs, “We were in a position where we didn’t have much of a choice,” his fingers drum against the steering wheel, as his eyes flicker to make sure your seatbelt was on, “it’s not your fault — and it’s not a bad thing — we’ll spend time at the conference, we’ll mingle, and then return to our hotel rooms,” he adds, “don’t worry. Nothing will happen.” 

And his reassurance is almost a punch to the gut instead — and your brain chides you for being so childish — you knew it was for the best, you knew it was the right thing to do, and you knew he was trying what was best for you, and for him. 

But why did it hurt so goddamn much? 

You steal a glance at him as he pulls into the street and begins to drive, dark gaze forward, his hair tied into its usual neat bun, and a chain poked out from underneath the rounded opening around his neck. And then your eyes flicker back out the window.  

Was it really not a big deal to him? 

Because the last two weeks were consumed with nothing, but thoughts of being alone with him. Days spent in conferences, sitting beside each other, whispering thoughts and inside jokes; evenings spent socializing together, waiting for the other to give the signal to leave; and nights walking back to your rooms, fingers brushing as you walked beside each other. You were sure it would take a slight bend of the rules, a gaze that lingers a little too long, to break the paper thin resistance either of you had to the other. The two of you could barely be alone for more than a few minutes without temptation rearing its ugly head — even now your eyes can’t help but trace the curve of his jaw, the way the sunlight catches his eyes, the way your fingers want nothing more than intertwine with his hand that rests on the console between you two. 

But you don’t. You give a weak smile, glancing out the window as the streets of Tokyo pass you by — “Yeah it should be fine.” 

Just fine. 

“There was a problem with your reservation,” 

And after half an hour of waiting off to the side, with your luggage stacked up and irritation creeping its way to a new high as you watched others easily being checked in to the hotel, you assumed there was a problem. If there wasn’t a problem, you would wonder if this was a new take on Waiting for Godot that would end with the both of youu sleeping in the lobby. You rubbed at your temples, as Geto dealt with the hotel staff, his arms crossed, lips a tight line, “the hotel double booked one of your rooms, so we only have one room available for you.”  

You barely heard the rest of the argument your professor had with the hotel staff, the same phrase ringing in your ears — one room, one room, one room. With nothing more to argue about, they finally escorted you both to your room in awkward silence. And as they opened the door, you spotted it — there was only one single queen sized bed. 

One. Bed. 

You felt your cheeks flush, as you couldn’t even meet Geto’s eyes, as he began to speak heatedly with the manager again. And the excuses began, as the manager wrung his hands, about how no other rooms being available due to the conference and another event happening in town. 

“There is a couch though,” he offers,  pointing to a far too small couch, and the sharp glare that Geto gave him would put even his red pen to shame, “we will see about comping half—“ Geto crosses his arms, “all of your stay here,” and with that, he’s gone. 

“So,” you sigh, glancing at Geto, with a strained smile, “I have dibs on the bed?” 

Was this a cosmic joke? You wondered as you turned off the water of the shower, squeezing your eyes shut. Was this a version of ethical karma for what you had done last semester? An ultimate ethical test that you would surely fail? A fucking prank show? 

You didn’t know. You dried off and got dressed, pulling on a t-shirt and shorts, your hair still damp, as you took a breath and stepped out, towel slung over your shoulders. 

Geto was still on the phone, pacing back and forth — he was trying to call other hotels to see if there was anywhere else with two rooms or at least a room with two beds.

“Yes I understand it’s very last minute—“ he sighs for what must have been the billionth time today, “yes, there was a mistake at the hotel I’m staying at—yes, ok, well, thank you,” he hangs up, setting his phone down. 

“No luck?” You sit on the edge of the bed, wiping your hair, and he shakes his head. 

“The one thing they were right about is that every hotel room is booked solid — not only is our conference in town, but there’s a physical science consortium happening as well,” he rakes his fingers through his hair, a few strands coming loose, “I’ll have to give the Dean a call to update him on the situation,” 

You nod, “So what should we do about sleeping?” And he can’t quite meet your gaze, “are there no trundle or rollaway beds?” 

“No, apparently those have all been spoken for,” he grumbles, and he prepares to call the dean, “I’ll take the couch, you can have the bed—“ 

“Professor, we can—“ and his gaze snaps to you, “we can share—“ 

“No, we can’t,” he says softly, “you know we can’t do that,” 

“We’re both adults—“ 

“And we’re still a professor and a student,” he draws the line between you two again, the gash even deeper than before, the gap that’s meant to keep you safe — the chase meant to protect you — so why did it feel more like a punishment? “I’ll take the couch,” and he calls the Dean to update him on the situation. 

You busy yourself with drying your hair in the bathroom, before coming back out to see him hanging up the phone. 

“Well, are we in an ethical bind or should I go sleep in the lobby just to show there’s no funny business?” And he shoots you a look, “there have been stranger bedfellows,” and he opens his mouth, “and a single word comes out of your mouth, and I’ll join you on that couch,” 

And a very pretty flush adorns the tips of his ears and cheeks, “He said it was fine, it was out of our control, but to just document everything, including the hotel’s incompetence for legality reasons,” 

“You’re also a lawyer as well as a professor?” 

“You have to hedge your bets,” he shrugs with a smile pulling at his lips, before he checks the time, “I’m going to take a shower,” he sighs, pulling his hair from the messy bun, letting his black locks down. And you watch him run his fingers through his hair again, sighing, as he heads into the shower. 

You lay on the bed, biting your lip — as you turn over to use your phone, as the shower turns on. And you glance at the closed door — the thought of him in there, pulling his shirt over his head, shedding his pants and boxers. Your cheeks burn, burying your face in your pillow as if that would help (it did not). 

You curl up on the bed, turning away from the bathroom door, using your phone. And a few minutes pass, as you kind of drift off into sleep, and you hear a creak of the bathroom door open that rouses you from sleep. You don’t move at first but you hear shuffling, the sounds of a zipper. You finally turn on your other side, eyes fluttering open, and you’re met with the sight of bare skin. 

You blink, eyes flickering up to see your Professor’s flushed face, before your eyes slowly following a bead of water slip down his bare chest, black hair dotting along the middle of his chest and abs, down to a happy trail that was hidden by a towel wrapped around his waist. His clothes in his hand, and your eyes find his own, your lips parted and mouth impossibly dry. 

Oh. My. God. 

“Uh—“ and his cheeks flare red, as you try your best not to let your eyes flicker downward, “I forgot my clothes—“ and you turn away, as he darts back into the bathroom, “I’m sorry,” he says, muffled through the door. 

“It’s okay!” You reply, your heart thumping against your ribcage, squeezing your eyes shut to only be met the memory of his bare torso, “fuck,” you mumble under your breath, as you turn onto your back, and stare at the spinning ceiling fan above you. A distinct ache below at the thought of him. 

Your eyes flickered to the shut bathroom door. You hear the sound of water running again — maybe he needed to wash up again. Either way, you slid under the comforter, hand slipping into your shorts, you had some time. You wish you could have grabbed his hand before he fled into the bathroom, sat up on your knees, fingers sliding to his cheek. 

“Kiss me,” you’d murmur, and he would, leaning down to press a kiss to your lips sweetly, as your fingers glide up his bare chest. You’d swallow his gasp with delight, as your other hand finds his wet locks, fingers tangling in his black locks, “please,” you would guide his fingers to the hem of your shirt and he would oblige, lifting up and over your head. And your fingers would tug his towel away, letting it fall to the ground. 

Your fingers press against the wet patch on your underwear, teeth digging into your bottom lip as you gasp, imagining it was instead his eager fingers that tugged your shorts down. You sunk one finger in and then another, pumping slowly, and you knew he would get you ready for him. He would fuck you with his thick fingers, as his mouth latched to your clit, sucking gently as he fucked you open. You moaned his name softly, as you imagine his fingers stretching you open. 

“Do you want me, my pretty girl?” He would murmur between your thighs, lips glossy with your release, “s’good for me, taste as good as you look,” and he would press your back gently into the mattress as he would meet your lips again before, rubbing the tip of his cock against your puffy lips, “tell me what you want, Princess,” 

“Please,” you whispered, as you moved your fingers faster, adding a third finger, but you know his cock would feel so much thicker, and reach so much deeper, “fuck me,” 

And he would, sinking into you, his pretty cock parting your folds, his quiet grunts and moans whispering in your ear, as he works himself inside to the hilt. His lips would find yours as he would rock his hips into you — your cunt would flutter around his length. He would press your thighs apart further, long fingers digging into your soft flesh, the wet squelch of your cunt and the sounds of his skin slapping against yours would ring in your ears.

“S’close, Sugu—fuck,” you would keen against him, instead of your fingers, “please,” and his thumb would find your clit, just as yours did, and you would cum all over his cock, squeezing around his length, as he sinks even deeper, until his tip is brushing against your cunt. The moan of his name slips out, as you press your forearm against your mouth to barely stifle it. 

Fuck, you come down from your high, panting. And you glance at the bathroom door, thinking you’ll clean up once he gets out. You roll over in bed, as you pulled the pillow over your face. 

This was going to be a long weekend. 

Suguru lingers in the bathroom for far too long after that, the embarrassment of the moment still far too fresh in his mind, his cheeks still a dusty pink at the thought. Not only was it bad enough that he was trapped in this hotel room with you for an entire weekend, but now he had paraded out practically half naked for you to see. 

Fuck his life. 

He had hurried into the shower if only to get a break from being in the same room as you. It had been hard enough to endure the last few weeks as a T.A., but now he had to spend an entire weekend sharing a hotel room — and deal with situations like that one all weekend. Seeing you emerge from the bathroom, only in a t-shirt and shorts, still damp from your shower — wet hair in messy tangles that he wanted to run his fingers through— and that’s why he excused himself to the bathroom. A reprieve if only for a moment. If he had only remembered to bring his clothes into the shower — he wouldn’t have had to finish his shower, with only his discarded clothes to wear that had slipped off the clothes rack and onto the damp floor. 

He had stepped out, towel around his waist, as he peeled out, only to see your back to him, the sounds of soft breathing told him you were asleep. And he crept out, silently cursing as the door creaked and rifled through his suitcase for clothes. He had found them, and gone to retreat back when you roused and turned all at once. 

God, he sighed, it was such a mess. 

But the way you looked at him…lips parted, gaze flicking across his body, the way your eyes lingered a little too long on his torso — and now he had an entirely different problem. 

His cock tented against the towel, as his eyes slid to the bathroom door. What if he just hopped into the shower for a second again? The towel dropped to the floor, as he steps back into the shower, turning on the water. 

He groans, his fingers slide over his mortifyingly hard erection, teasing his slit as he would imagine you would, as you would open the bathroom door, murmuring his name, “Professor? Are you okay?” And you wouldn’t wait for his answer as you stepped into the shower with him, eyes raking down his body, a teasing grin on your lips, “not very ethical is that?” And your fingers would curl their way around the base of his cock, making him shudder with pleasure, “I can take care of that,” and you would kiss down his chest and stomach, even despite his protests, until you reached where he wanted your touch most. 

And god, you would look so pretty on your knees for him, as your fingers pumped him far too slowly, teasing him with a chaste kiss to his tip, tongue dragging against his slit, better than how his thumb did, “s’good for me, Professor,” you’d say, when you heard the hiss he just let out, “I wonder what other sounds you could make for me,” and your lips would close around his tip, sucking lightly, as he gasped, his other hand clasped over his mouth, muffling his sounds. 

He would look down with half lidded eyes, and see your head bobbing as you took him so well, your fingers toying with his balls, spotting your eyes flicking up to meet his — glazed over and desperate, just he imagined his were. Your mouth would feel so much better than his hand, the wet squelch of his pumping would not compare to you swallowing around him, sucking and licking around his length, his pre-cum and your drool slipping down the corner of your mouth. 

You’d swallow around him, as his fingers would slide into your hair. And maybe you would let him fuck your mouth, hips rolling slowly as you adjust, before he slowly would thrust faster. He would repay the favor tenfold once you were done, burying himself in your sweet cunt, until you were begging him to stop. His fingers moved faster around his cock, his low groans and wet squelch bouncing off the bathroom walls, hopefully drowned out by the running water.  Fuck, he wished he would feel how it would to have his tip brush against the back of your throat. 

He was close, the twitch of his dick in his hand told him so, and he imagined what it would be like to cum in your mouth, watching you swallow his release, if you’d want to, or cumming all over your face or chest, letting his cock drag over your tongue as he pulled out. 

Fuck, he shudders, moaning your name against his fingers, he cums all over his hand and the wall of the shower, his release running down mixing with the water. He rinsed his hand off, leaning his head under the water again, hoping it would wash away any traces of you. 

It didn’t. 

And as he emerged from the shower, making sure any trace of his act had slipped down the drain, but the towel around his neck, wondering if you’d see what he did on his face. But you wouldn’t — because you were fast asleep. 

His lips curled as he watched you sleep for a moment, your lips parted, curled up facing away from the bathroom — your feet sticking out of your blanket. He adjusts the blanket for you, and you shift a little in your sleep, mumbling something under your breath, before settling back in. 

And he bites his lip before turning away — he would never be clean, would he? 

Not when it was you. 

“How much longer do you think we’ll be stuck here?” you murmur, the smile plastered on your lips nearly starting to chip and crack. 

Professor Geto sipped at his drink hiding his frown, long fingers cradling the wine glass far too perfectly, “at least another hour,” he sighs, “when in academia, one must get used to mindless conversing if only it will lead to another needless connection,”

And this day had been nothing but an exercise of that — lectures, panels, presentations — any other word that meant someone or several someones sitting in front of you, talking at you — with only maybe 30% of the people actually listening (if you were lucky or interesting). And now you were one hour deep into a mixer that had you engaging in dry chit-chat that had your mind going numb by the first ten minutes. Your only reprieve being by Geto’s side. 

You hated how he could make the dullest of things enjoyable for you, or rather—

You hated how much you loved it 

“How pithy — Plato?” And he snorts, as you finish off your own drink, “I’m going to get a refill, do you want anything?” He shakes his head, and you head off to the bar. 

You were so restless after sitting for so long. Not to mention the slight rash you got from not washing up soon enough. You woke an hour and half later and cleaned yourself up — luckily Geto had passed out by then. You saw him sleeping half scrunched up, half sprawled out on the couch — one of his legs were hanging off the couch — and even his blanket had slipped off. You stifled a small laugh, taking a quick picture of him — so stubborn that he wouldn’t sleep on the bed with you. Your gaze had softened, as you picked up the discarded blanket and placed it over him softly, your fingers gently tucking some of his hair from his face. You fell asleep again after heading back to bed, and woke up refreshed — while Geto had woken up with a very sore back and neck. 

“Can I get…” you look at the menu, ordering your favorite drink, standing by the bar as you adjust your dress, you had opted for a black dress with sheer tights — one you had worn a suit jacket over it. You tap against the bar top, checking your phone as you do. 

“Can I get what she’s getting?” A dark haired man sidles up beside you, his mouth curled in a smirk drawing attention to a scar in the corner of his mouth, and his voice drops to a whisper, “though I think I’d enjoy you more than the drink,” 

You raise your eyebrows, “and I think you’ve certainly had enough tonight,” you say under your breath, giving an awkward chuckle, but he doesn’t seem to notice as the bartender comes back with your drink. Your eyes flicker over the crowd as you search for Geto but you can’t find him. 

“What’s your name, pretty?” And your skin crawls as his dark gaze slides over your body, “mine’s Toji,” and you bite back a sigh, introducing yourself, “it’s very nice to meet you — I’ve met a lot of people tonight but you definitely have been the most interesting,” and the bartender comes back with his drink. 

“Then you must have not met a lot of interesting people so far,” you say, eager to look for any out to escape this conversation, “my friend is waiting—“ 

“No, I’d say that you’re just that interesting,” he sips his drink, “can I get you another drink?” 

And right when you’re about to respond, “No, I don’t think she’s interested,” And you tense a moment before you register the familiar voice, Geto smiles at Toji, if you could call that a smile — it reminded you of one a predator gave its new prey, “especially because she’s a student, and you’re most assuredly not,” 

Toji raises an eyebrow, “But she is an adult, she can speak for herself, so why don’t you let her, Professor?” 

“Because—“ his fingers twitch as if he wants to reach for you but he can’t. 

You swallow the lump in your throat. And you know why he can’t. 

Geto’s smile wavers, and you intercede, “I can, and I think I’ve had enough for tonight,” you pay your tab, “let’s go back to the hotel, Professor,” 

And Toji pulls his card out, handing it to you, “If you change your mind,” he raises his glass, leaning against the bar, before he leans closer to you, whispering, “if you ever get sick of him, call me,” 

You give a polite smile, tugging Geto away until you reached the outside of the building, silence filled the space between you two, until you found your way outside. 

“What did he say?” He asks as he calls a car back to take you both to the hotel, and you don’t know how to answer that — not without making it worse, “actually, never mind. I shouldn’t have asked,” 

“Professor—“ 

“You’re an adult, he’s right — you should be allowed to make your own choices,” he licks his lips, his eyes still fixed on his phone screen, “I’m sorry if I—“ 

“Can you let me speak?” you sigh, as you wave your hand in front of his phone so he would look at you, and his eyes meet yours, “you’re fine — I was trying to get out of there — I just felt very trapped.” 

He huffs out a chuckle. “When you took that long, I wondered if the group of solipsists had taken you hostage,” 

You grimace, “I guess when you believe everyone else is an illusion, you also think manners are an illusion too,” he laughs in earnest now, “now there’s a real smile,” He tilts his head, “the smile you had inside, real scary kind of smile,” you tease, as his eyes can’t quite meet yours.

“Oh yeah?” he suddenly seems very interested in his phone, “our rideshare is almost here,” 

“Almost like you were jealous,” and he scoffs. 

“Of him?” 

“Uh huh, he is pretty attractive, maybe I will give him a call—“ and you notice him grip his phone tighter, and your lips curl, “but I probably won’t, not really my type,” 

“Not your type?” he asks. 

“More into the intellectuals, that man was far from it — I like an academic, sweater vests, glasses, a pretentious little office—“ and the glare is back, as you laugh, the rideshare sparing him from you continuing this conversation, but you also didn’t get to see the slight smile on his lips as you slipped into the back of the car. 

“Just sleep on the bed,” you say for probably the thousandth time, but he only shakes his head, as he sits on the couch, combing out his black locks. Even freshly showered, he looks unfairly hot — a loose gray t-shirt with sweatpants, contacts switched to glasses, and now his hair brushed against his shoulders. 

“I’ll sleep on the couch — it was fine last night—“ 

“Your spinal cord would beg to differ,” and he looks unamused, as he struggles with his comb, “what are you doing?” 

“I can’t get this knot out of my hair, and I can’t get you out of my hair either,” he adds, as you roll your eyes, slipping off the bed and walking over. You ease the comb from his fingers, biting your lip at the brush of his fingers, “what are you—“ 

“It’s easier if someone else does it,” and he sighs, giving in, as your fingers undo the knot in his hair gently, “your hair is really smooth and fine, probably why it tangled so fast,” and he only hums in response, his body relaxing under your touch, as you comb through the rest of his hair. You bite back a smile, he’s almost like a cat, keening under your touch, “feels good?” You murmur. 

“Yeah, it does,” and you don’t want the moment to end, you want this excuse to touch him to remain, the first time you’ve been able to breach this wall between you two — and it’d be over in an instant, “I think that’s good,” he mutters. 

He lays his head back on the top of the couch to look up at you — pretty obsidian orbs stared back at you — and your heart squeezes. He was so close, within reach, and all you had to do was lean down, press your lips against his, and maybe you wouldn’t have to tiptoe anymore, maybe you wouldn’t have to hide from him, maybe you could be— 

“We should go to bed,” he sighs, the moment breaks, as he sits upright, adjusting his pillow on the couch beside him, “we have an early start,” 

“Don’t remind me,” you turn back to him, “but you’re right - we should go to bed—“ you grab his pillow, “on the bed,” 

“No—“ 

“Like you said, we’re both adults,” you tilt your head, as he purses his lips, “I think I can handle sleeping in bed beside you, just sleeping, we can even put a pillow between us,” and you add, “if I try anything in my sleep, you challenge me to a pillow fight, and push me off the bed,” 

He scoffs, rubbing the back of his neck, “I really can sleep on—“ and then you raise your eyebrows, eyes flicking to the hand on his neck. He sighs, “fine, but I really will push you off the bed, I’m a restless sleeper,” 

“Then it’s equal opportunity,” you grin, as you slip into your side of the bed, stretching. Suguru is slower to get in, taking his time and adjusting his pillow and blanket before he finally gets into bed, “good night,” 

“Good night,” he turns to face away from you as he sleeps and you do the same. 

But it wasn’t a good night. Not when you couldn’t fucking sleep. 

For someone so smart, you really were very stupid. The bed that seemed expansive and open yesterday now felt Tom Thumb tiny, every shift of your body felt like a ripple effect, as you’d feel the slight shift of Geto right beside you. He was so close — you swore you could nearly feel the heat radiate off of him, the weight of his body beside you felt far too close and way too far — a chasm you could never cross.

And it was close to driving you insane enough to follow your wants all the way down it. 

But you couldn’t — but you could look, stare into the void, without becoming part of it. 

You shift again to face him this time — how could the back of someone’s head be so beautiful? Jet black locks that you had combed yourself fanned out on his pillow. But you could spot the nape of his neck through the tresses, a lovely spot that you only wished you could lean over and bury your face in. Your eyes began to droop. 

Hypnos finally took pity. You could only sleep this way. Your eyes finally flutter shut — you should have known — you were always the most comfortable with him in your sight. 

Suguru knew that you had fallen asleep — because your soft breaths fell into a rhythm, the crinkle of your sheets had grown silent, and the loud thoughts that filled up your head had gone quiet. He was glad one of you could sleep. 

He surely wouldn’t get a wink tonight. 

This was certainly more comfortable than the couch, but at least he had slept on the couch. He would be lucky to get thirty minutes at this rate. This weekend had already been too much — and he felt his will to stay away from you slowly snapping, a few strands away from breaking away completely. 

When he had seen you with Toji — he didn’t think, he just acted. He could see you were uncomfortable, the way your body leaned away from him, the way your eyes flickered around the room, and the way you toyed with your glass. It was a simple choice, but what happens when the next person that flirts with you is someone you’re interested in? Would he have to stand by and simply let it happen? Watch as you’re able to date this person but not him simply because of his title? 

He was jealous. Not of Toji — but of the idea of you being with someone else — of your attention drifting from him, of you drifting from him. He turned to lay on his back, he really was fucked wasn’t he? 

He turns his head to look at you. It never helped that you were effortlessly adorable, even now as you slept. Lips parted, body curled up, your hair falling in your face yet again. His fingers tuck a strand behind your ear gently, and you shift, a quiet hum leaving your lips as you settle back into the arms of the sandman. 

How were you so close but so far? You were mere inches away but you might as well be across the country. Because he couldn’t touch you, he couldn’t hold you, he couldn’t kiss you. The kiss he shared with you haunted his dreams — a daydream wrapped up in the nightmare of reality. He couldn’t ask you to wait — wait for your degree to be completed so the two of you could date. It wouldn’t be fair to you, but what about this was fair? 

And he turns on his side to face you, his fingers brushing your cheek gently — maybe if he couldn’t be with you in reality, he could allow himself to dream, his eyes flutter shut. 

Just for a moment. 

And his unconscious allows it — allows him to dream of you. 

Dream of your face buried in the crook of his neck, your soft breaths warming his skin, his nose buried in your hair. Your fingers grasped at his shirt, your other hand thrown over his middle. Why was your scent so intoxicating? He sighs, pulling you impossibly closer, and you shift, your leg sliding around his waist, as you pressed closer, pulling a groan from his lips as your core grazes right against his morning…visitor. 

And you move again, nose brushing against his collarbone, his name on your lips, quietly whispered like a secret against his skin. It was perfect — you were perfect. 

But what if this wasn’t a dream? The back of his mind prods — but that’s not possible, he was home in bed, right? This wasn’t real. It was the same dream he always had, of waking up in your arms, a lazy morning spent together in bed, the sun barely peeking over the horizon, the sheets becoming dappled in sunshine. 

No, there was no way this was real, he sighs into your hair, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, but even if it was, he thought as he drifted, he didn’t want to wake — not yet. 

A distinct buzz stirs you from your sleep. But you don't want to wake — you were far too comfortable. But the buzzing persists, so you reach blindly for your phone and to turn off the alarm. And settle back into bed, eyes still shut, as you find your way back onto your pillow — or what you thought was your pillow. 

Except pillows didn’t move, or have an arm they could wrap around you. 

Your eyes open, to find yourself entangled with someone else — your brow furrowing in confusion that melts away to silent horror. Professor Geto. 

So much for sticking to your sides. 

Fuck.  

You tried to extricate yourself to no avail, his arm wrapped around you, pulling you flush to his body, your legs entangled, aside from your leg thrown over his waist, you realize, a small squeak escaping your lips, as you try and fail to move away. Instead you brush up against something very…hard. 

You flush, cheeks burning so hot that it’s truly a miracle he didn’t wake from the heat of your skin against his alone. His morning wood was pressed right against you, nearly between your thighs — just like the last time it was  against you — why the fuck would you think about that now? You resisted the urge to press your legs together — lest you have another new problem, and a mess to deal with. 

You manage to only pull your head away, urging yourself up so that your faces are an inch or two apart now. His soft breaths warmed your lips, his brow relaxed, locks of black hair fell in front of his eyes. Your fingers reach and tuck the locks behind his ear, tips skimming his skin. And the arm around you almost seems to tighten, and you bite your lip, the comforting presence of his arms far too tempting to drag you into wanting — as if you ever left. Wanting was dangerous, because wanting can only ever lead to need, needing him was as foolish as it was to share a bed with the man you were in love with. 

But how foolish was it that you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away? It was okay right? Okay as long your lips didn’t touch, as long you didn’t follow this slope all the way down — it was treacherous to press forward, but why did you want to anyway?

Your eyes flutter shut again for a moment — and your eyes glanced at the morning sky — the sun had just breached the horizon. You could allow yourself a few minutes — even if you had to give up a lifetime with him. 

The blaring of your phone only seems to grow increasingly loud, as you give a small groan, rolling over to your phone again, slapping the screen to snooze it again. And your eyes flutter open a moment, lazily flickering over the screen — 8:45 AM. 

Your eyes close — before your mind fully wakes — 8:45 AM? 

“Fuck,” you shoot up to get up, a tangle of limbs,  jolting Geto awake, his eyes popping open, his arm instinctively grabbing you by the waist, and you land with an oomfph back onto the bed—wait, not the bed. 

Your hand pressed against his chest, your body against his, noses brushing, your eyes unable to tear away from the other — his eyes were even prettier this close — a dark brown, nearly black, with flecks of another color — purple? You can’t tell if that’s your heartbeat or his that’s racing with how close you are, chest to chest. And even as you try to shift, you make it worse by slipping, your hips rubbing against each other’s. 

Fuck. 

You both freeze for a moment, his eyes flickering to your lips and back, as yours does the same, before you both scramble apart. 

“We’re late. We’re really late,” you spring out of bed, grabbing random clothes from your suitcase, “I’m going to get ready, really fast,” you don’t even bother to look at his expression, and you almost wished your heart had shattered your ribcage, with how fucking hard it’s beating, if only that you wouldn’t have to spend another day in the conference with him. 

You sighed, as you brushed your teeth hurriedly while doing your hair — well maybe a lecture or presentation would take your mind off this morning. 

So that wasn’t a dream, Suguru was only glad you didn’t even glance at his face when you ran off, or you would have seen the lovely tomato red that graced his cheeks. He could still feel the warmth from your body, slowly receding, and he swore he could still feel you against him, your soft skin, your pretty lips against his neck, and your leg around his waist. 

Fuck. 

God, he had another fucking problem to deal with — as he shifted awkwardly, his morning wood up and erect with a tent that could put most large circus tents to shame. Fuck, he didn’t have time to take care of this — especially with you in the bathroom right now. 

But still, he pressed his inner palm to his lips, how was he going to make it through the rest of the conference with the feeling of your body still lingering in his mind. If the situation was different, the two of you would have woken up with smiles on your lips, spent the morning cuddling without a care, and probably a little more than that—

But the situation was the same, and his eyes slid to the bathroom door, so why was it that he still thinking about you? He wasn’t the type to dwell, he accepted things for what they were — he had his principles and his beliefs, and he stuck to them, unless proven otherwise. He was a man of guidelines, of rules—

So why were you the only person that ever made him want to throw every rule away? 

“We are going to be discussing ethical dilemmas faced in universities and how to approach them,” the lecturer begins, “can anyone tell us an example of one such dilemma?” 

You both had barely made it into a lecture — barely even speaking as you ran-walked into the conference — choosing a lecture at random, as the two of you ran a good fifteen minutes late. You both arrived, hiding your pants, as you both grabbed water bottles from the back, and sat down. 

And of course to make matters worse, your phone goes off, making the entire room turn to look at the two of you. You silence your phone, murmuring a quick sorry as the two of you take your seats. 

Could this possibly get worse? 

Your eyes glanced at him — it was already bad enough to begin with. Geto had barely spoken a word this morning, even as the two of arrived at the conference, the only words he spoke were to the attendant that parked his car. 

You tugged at the collar of your shirt, adjusting your clothes. And if that wasn’t enough, you were going to spend the day sweaty and disheveled. Meanwhile, you stole another glance at your professor — his skin flushed from running, button up not buttoned up all the way, glasses instead of contacts, and his hair in its usual bun, but a few strands were nearly coming loose — he still looked fucking delectable. But he wouldn’t meet your gaze, his body positioned to lean away from yours, his eyes fixed ahead. 

You held back your sigh as you focused on the presentation — you just needed to get through today — as the lecturer picked someone who raised their hand. 

“A student-teacher relationship is one such ethical problem faced in universities today,” and Geto nearly chokes on his water, coughing slightly, as you feel your cheeks burn at the thought of this morning, “it presents several ethical problems — including the role the professor plays in the student’s education and future, their ability to provide praise or reprimand, and even grant recommendations gives them great power over their student. It leaves the student without much freedom in the relationship.”

Oh, what the fuck. 

The rest of the conference is spent in relative silence with a thick film of awkwardness perfectly overlayed. When you both finally return to the hotel room, your only consolation is that you’ll be leaving tomorrow. You toss your things onto the couch, “I’m going to wash up,” you tell him, and he only nods in reply, as you enter the bathroom and shut the door, back pressed against it and sliding down. 

Oh this is such a mess. You sigh, maybe a shower will help. 

It didn’t. You were still just as much of a mess as you were before. You sighed, as you stood in front of the sink, wiping your hair with a towel. This could be so simple if you both could be together — so easy. There would be no tension, no hurt feelings, no awkwardness — you could just be. But that’s not an option. So the only other option is to let him go. 

But you didn’t know how to begin to. 

Either way, hiding in the bathroom wouldn’t solve a thing — and you finally opened the door, “I’m done if you want to wash up,” he nods, sitting on the couch, reading a book. His glasses rested on the tip of his nose, lips pursed, and legs crossed. 

You walk over, grabbing your things from the couch and put some of your things away in your suitcase. But after all of that is done, you realize one thing is missing — your cellphone. 

“Shit,” you murmur under your breath, searching through your suit coat pockets, your pants pocket, anywhere that your phone might be. 

“What’s wrong?” Geto says, book in his lap, as he tilts his head. 

“Can’t find my phone,” you mumble, cheeks burning — god, it was already awkward enough, and now this? 

“Is it on ring?” You nod — your phone was usually on ring, sometimes to your detriment — you cringe at the memory in the lecture this morning, “I’ll call it,” 

He calls you — and you glance at his phone screen, your contact is just your name, no picture, nothing. You bite your lip, what were you expecting? A heart next to your name? And the sound of your phone ringing catches both of your attention. 

“It’s over here, somewhere,” he says, lifting up some of cushions of the couch, and reaching underneath into the creases, as you walk over — “I found—“ 

And you were so concerned about your contact information in his phone that you forgot about his contact information in your phone. 

The screen flashed with the image of him sleeping all lopsided on the couch from that first night, as you covered your mouth in both horror, but also to stifle your laugh. 

His eyes flicker to you, “When did you—“ and you reach for your phone, but he moves it away, “not until you answer my questions,” 

“This isn’t class, Professor, I want my phone—“ you reach for it again, and he’s holding it above your head, “oh real mature—“ 

“Like the picture you have of me as my contact picture?” He raises an eyebrow, a real smile pulling at the corners of his lips, “thought I should resort to my student’s level,”  

“Your T.A.,” you correct, as you reach for your phone again, but he’s using his height to his advantage, and he’s beginning to walk backwards, “come on, give it back—“ 

“Not until I change and delete that photo,” and he’s trying to hold your phone up to your face to unlock it, and you gasp. 

“Oh my god, give it back!” And you grab his hand, and he’s grabbing at the other, giggles leaving your lips, as he laughs too, as the two of you struggle for the phone, your fingers closing over it, and over his own fingers as well. 

And you realize how close you are to him. 

The two of you freeze a moment, laughter on your lips fading away to soft smiles, and his fingers squeeze yours lightly, as he passes you your phone back. But he doesn’t move away — and you don’t either. 

“Why did you let go?” and it seems like it’s a force out of your control that draws you together, no matter how much either of you try to let go. 

“Because I can’t help giving you what you want,” he murmurs, and the heat of his gaze melts your heart, as you drop your phone onto the couch, and reach for his hand again. 

And you lean closer, your other hand gently brushing against his cheek, tracing the line of his jaw, “So if I ask for a kiss, will you give it to me?” You won’t close the gap anymore than you have — he needs to reach for you too, let himself give into gravity. 

He does, as his hand brushes against your cheek, thumb rubbing back and forth across your cheekbone, “will we stop at just a kiss?” He murmurs, leaning so close that your eyes want to flutter shut. 

“Only one way to find out,” and his lips brush yours. And it’s not chaste like your first kiss was, no, his lips slide against yours, as his other hand slides to the back of your neck. He swallows your gasp eagerly, if the smirk you feel against your lips is anything to go off of. Your teeth graze against this bottom lip teasingly, drawing a small groan from the back of his throat. 

Neither of you couldn’t stop at one kiss, and you both knew that, even as your lips parted for a small breath of air, they found each other again — just as you both always did. Because you could never let him go — no matter how hard you tried. 

RING. RING. RING. 

And this time it isn’t an alarm. But rather his phone, flashing with a name that brings you crashing back to reality. 

The department head. 

“Fuck,” he murmurs under his breath, as he parts from you, his warmth leaving all at once, as he grabs his phone, and turns away, “Hello? Yes, the conference is over. Everything went well. No, no, nothing out of the ordinary.” 

You stared at his back, this would always be the case wouldn’t it? Even as you crashed together, something would pull you apart, and neither of you could break the cycle. You take your phone from the couch, and crawl into bed, but you could start. 

You close your eyes, your fingers brushing against your lips for a moment. You needed to start — otherwise, you would just end up broken. 

And you don’t hear him hang up — or see him stare at your figure under the covers — and he would break along with you. 

Suguru didn’t know what to say the next morning — especially when it seemed couldn’t even bear to look at him, much less speak to him. You had busied yourself with packing, even before he had awoken. His back ached from the night he spent on the couch, he couldn’t fall asleep for far too long, and by the time he did, he kept sleeping — through his many alarms it seemed. 

And it wasn’t the couch that kept him awake. 

You both had the most lovely timing, didn’t you? He thought, as he combed his hair in the bathroom, the memory of your fingers running through his hair as you gently undid the knots in his locks still ever present — it seemed like any time you two wanted to act on your feelings, the universe was doing what it could to keep you apart. 

Was this fate versus free will? 

You both kept choosing each other — but fate kept pulling you apart. Did he have any control over his actions or did he have no control over his actions at all? Was it all predetermined by some force he couldn’t perceive? Some force intent on pulling you apart. 

He sighed, as his phone lights up with an email from the department head — department head position opened up in Jujutsu University: Kyoto — 

And so maybe he should let it. 

The next few weeks pass by far too quick. As your semester picks up, you stop attending Professor Geto’s classes, opting to send an email to let him know, and he replies back with a simple response — Ok. Please let me know when and if you are available to input the grades for the midterm paper. 

The rest of your T.A. work is done online and over email — and you do your best to keep busy, keep yourself occupied, and keep your thoughts from straying to him.

And you maybe succeed 10% of the time. It doesn’t help that your unconscious does not wish to cooperate since it seems that once you stopped seeing your professor during waking hours, he’s infiltrated your sleep — sneaking in and out by the time your eyes open. 

And then you’re left with the fragments of his touch, his voice, his kisses, and soft, loving words. 

Just as you always were it seemed. 

And before you know it, the end of the semester comes, and you find yourself in front of that same office door yet again. It felt like an eternal reoccurrence — stuck to repeat the same events again and again in an infinite loop. Was there any exit from this loop? 

You didn’t know — you knocked on his office door — but you could try. 

“Come in,” you do, entering his office to find him sitting at his desk, hair half up for once. And his eyes flicker up to meet yours, his head tilting at your stare, “see something interesting?” 

“Your hair—“ and your cheeks burn — so much for trying — “it’s different,” 

“Thought I’d try something different — my hair is growing out,” and you have to repress the want to curl a lock or his hair around your finger, “do you not like it?” 

You shake your head, “It looks nice, just different,”

And he hands you the papers he’s graded, “you can input those, I’m just finishing up a couple more, so if you wouldn’t mind waiting a bit?” 

“Not at all,” a silence falls over between the two of you, the quiet scratch of his pen as he grades, the occasional ding of his e-mail breaking up the silence. You sneak a glance at him — ebony tresses brushing against his broad shoulders, his brow furrowed that you wished to run your fingers along to smooth his worries from his mind, pretty lips parted as he reads a sentence silently to himself. 

Fuck — no, no, you can’t do this. 

You busy yourself thumbing your way through the papers, spotting the familiar red scrawls littering these pages, as they once did yours. You were so pissed when you got your first paper back — indignant even — a whole Karen ready to speak to his supervisor. But when his honest criticism and blunt words rang true, you found yourself not only wanting to prove him wrong, but a want to be better. To earn his respect. And of course, later, you wanted to earn a little more than that. 

You bite back a chuckle, and here you still were — by his side. Except next semester you wouldn’t be his T.A. 

But you would still be a student. And he would still be a professor. 

But one other thing that hasn’t changed is how brutal the feedback is — you couldn’t help but feel bad for “Itadori Yuuji” — whoever that was. 

“What are you smiling about?” Your eyes snap up to meet his, his head leaning against his palm, elbow resting on the desk. 

“Nothing,” you shake your head, but he looks unconvinced, “just thinking about our first time in this office,” and then your cheeks burn at the double meaning, “I mean our first office hours appointment—“ 

He waves you off, “I know what you meant,” a small chuckle in his cadence, as he continues to grade, “you certainly weren’t happy with me,” 

“No I wasn’t,” a small smile on your lips, “but it worked out in the end,” you add, “you got an amazing T.A. after all,” 

His eyes meet yours, “More than just that,” 

Why can’t you help but get pulled in time and time again? And why can’t you help but ask questions that will only hurt you in the end? 

He continues to grade when you finally speak, “What do you think would have happened if I didn’t end up being your T.A.?” 

And his pen stops, lips pursed, “We shouldn’t—“ 

“Why shouldn’t we?” you felt like a child demanding an answer from their parent. 

“We agreed—”

“I don’t remember an agreement-” 

“It was unspoken—” 

You scoff, crossing your arms, “You really are only a professor because an attorney would know that binding agreements can’t be unspoken,” he falls silent, his voice soft. 

“I don’t want to keep hurting you,” his words are wrought with conflict, pain seeping into every syllable, “I don’t want to keep going down this road only to for you to get hurt in the end — I don’t want to jeopardize your future for something that might not last—” 

“But what if it does?” and he swallows thickly, “what if we can make it work? We’re both adults, we can be discreet—” 

“So discreet that we end up making out in my office?” he takes off his glasses only to run a hand down his face, a slight pink tinge on his cheeks, and you huff out a chuckle. 

“A little more discreet than that, we’ll lock the door next time,” it’s his turn to scoff, and you rise from your seat, lips curled, “close the lights, or maybe even kiss in a place that’s not on campus,” but he does the same, meeting you on the side of his desk, his fingers brushing your cheek so gently as if you’d shatter under his touch. 

“I don’t want to stand in the way of your career,” he says, his fingers finding your hand regardless, fingers interlacing, “I don’t want you to—” 

“It’s my choice, Suguru,” you murmur, as you lean against his warm palm, your fingers sliding against his palm and into his inky tresses, “don’t you owe me a choice, and a drink?” you add, and his lips curl in a knowing smile. 

“I do, if you’ll still have me,” and he’s leaning close, sucking the air from the room, and the logic from your minds, as his lips barely graze yours, “shouldn’t we lock the door?” 

“Fuck it,” and you pull him into a deep kiss that pulls a groan from his lips that makes your cunt ache, as he’s already pushing you into the lip of his desk, his hand sliding down to your waist. 

“Now who’s being unethical?” he murmurs, pressing eager kisses along your jaw, that makes you melt against him, your legs nearly jelly at this point, “what kind of example are you setting as a T.A.?” 

You bite back your moan as his lips find the soft spot of your neck, teeth grazing it far too fucking teasingly, “Well students learn by example,” and his hands are slipping under thighs to lift you so you’re sitting on his desk — you spread your legs for him in the dress that you’re in, pantyhose underneath, his heavy lidded gaze raking over your body, “and look at my professor staring at his T.A. so lustfully, even with a clear power dynamic—” 

And his fingers find your thighs again, squeezing, before his fingers dig into the sheer hose, tearing holes in it, drawing a gasp from your lips, “How’s that for a power dynamic, princess?” far too pleased, “don’t worry, I’ll buy you new ones,” he murmurs, “now just be a good girl and spread your legs for me,” he says, as he pulls away the ruined pantyhose, and he’s undoing the buttons on his shirt with one hand — one, two, three — before your fingers take over, leaning to press kisses at each inch of exposed skin, until the shirt falls open. 

Then his lips find yours again, his silver tongue asking for you to part your lips and you do — as he extracts every want you have with his burning touch — his lips against yours, his large hands parting your thighs, his knee pressed against your twitching cunt — and only leaves your want for him behind, until it becomes a need. 

“Wonder what our students would think of you,” his fingers tease your inner thighs, drawing a whine from your lips, “wanting your professor to fuck you in his office instead of inputting their grades,” he whispers in your ear, as his fingers finally skim the wet patch of your underwear, “so wet f’me, already? Look I think you even soaked my slacks,” he tsks, as his thumb and forefinger find your chin and tilt it up, “what are you going to do about that?” 

“Suguru—please,” and he smiles as his finger starts to tease your puffy clit through your drenched panties, “don’t tease—” 

“How can I not when you’ve nothing but tease me with your existence?” he pulls the crotch of your underwear aside, “I’ll oblige my favorite student this time—but I won’t be so nice next time,” he adds, biting your bottom lip. 

RING. RING. RING. 

It was his fucking office phone. You groan, but his finger continues to sink into you, “Suguru—” 

“Let it ring,” his lips find yours in a bruising kiss as his finger deliciously sinks into you, “I have all I need right here,” he whispers, and you pull him back into a kiss by the collar of his unbuttoned shirt, your hand sliding up and down his chest, while he worked a finger into your cunt, “so fucking wet f’me, so perfect,” 

And your hand flies back to support yourself as a second finger begins to sink into you — but your hand grazes his office phone, and the messages begin to play back.

“Fuck, sorry,” you mumble, as you reach blindly for the phone, only to knock it back, as he chuckles and reaches behind you, trying but failing to help — your noses brushing, and he smiles before kissing you again. 

Mr. Geto, sorry we missed each other, I was calling, hoping that you would still be in office for the day, but I must have just missed you. I wanted to call to offer you the job as department head at Jujutsu Tech University: Kyoto—

You freeze, your lips parting from his as you look up at him, his eyes wide as he stops the message from playing back any further — and the words settle over the mood like a sheet pulled over a dead body. 

And you’re the first to speak, always asking the questions that will hurt you in the end, “You’re moving to Kyoto?” 

✧ a/n: so i'm sorry for that ending hahah, i promise there will be a happy ending later on for these two. thank you to @gaylatteart and @laneysmusings for betaing and just being the best. also if i tagged you please comment / reblog because tagging on tumblr sucks, it takes very long.

✧ taglist: @hatsunemitskislobotomy, @difficultdomains, @diogodxlot, @that-goth-bisexual, @bash1018, @dazailover1900, @aliyalala, @ashhlsstuff, @blue041803, @mwtsxri, @bblgumfairy, @sukunasleftkneecap, @xo-evangeline, @fiannee, @teatreeoilll, @chalametet, @ryukaver, @d1gitalbathh, @saga3ious, @seventhcinema, @satosugucide, @your-l0nely-star, @sokkasmoon, @deegausserr, @hyookka, @oggsyy, @littlebitb, @higuchislut, @ti-mame, @itoshisins, @cerene-dipity, @onionsoop, @sinlillith, @izzythenaive, @akvrae, @lalacute03, @rxndou, @c-themoon, @xxrag-d0llxx, @hqtoge, @sugarxlumps, @hopeluna, @actualdeemon,

[tripleyeeet]

MY LOVE IS MINE, ALL MINE (15)

SUMMARY: Astarion insists that you rest.

PAIRING: Astarion & Female Reader

WORD COUNT: 2,987

WARNINGS: Brief mentions of death and dissociation, a whole lot of fluff and comfort as an apology for all the angsty chapters. :^)

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Ha-ha, hey do people still care about this fic? (Sorry I went MIA, my brain got bad)

CHAPTER LIST / MASTERLIST

-

It feels odd having Astarion around.

For days, his hands are almost always attached to you in some way. Gripping tightly onto your arm as he guides you out of the bed, drawing patterns into your back each night he quietly lays next to you —anything to make you feel like he’s some sort of extension of you. As if he’s another set of limbs there to help you heal. 

It’s nice, at first. Comforting. And for a while, as you exhaustively lay amongst the sheets and pillows, tucked against the side of his torso, it helps you forget about the world around you. How just beyond this realm of soft looks and tender touches, there’s a war raging on, developing day by day as you tirelessly drift from bed to bath and back again, trying your best not to get too restless.

Which is easier some days than others. 

For example, the first few felt like a breeze. Nothing more than a collection of hours that quickly whizzed by before you could even blink. With Astarion there to distract you, time seemed to slip from your grasp entirely. Exiting your mind in the form of lengthy naps spent latched onto your partner’s frame. 

It was blissful. A much needed break from all the chaos but it was obvious it wouldn’t last. Nothing more than a blip in an otherwise more momentous event, you could feel the restlessness of the future seeping in. Taking hold of your mind, ripping through the cavernous well of missing information that occurred during your death. You couldn’t help but wonder what had happened. How the group managed without you —how Astarion managed.

Based on the lack of space given during the healing process, you assume badly. Considering he’s never touched you like this —like you’re the most fragile thing he’s ever placed his hands on as if at any moment one wrongful slip of his fingers might shatter you all over again— it’s apparent something within him changed. Shifting in a way that, even now, nearly a week later his presence is still stagnant.  

And for the most part, it is nice. A welcomed change amongst all the bullshit. Having him there with you —seeing the lengths he’s willing to go to make sure that you’re safe is unparalleled to anything you’ve ever felt. A dream within a plague of nightmares lulling you to sleep each night he holds you close, telling you that everything’s fine. At least, until it isn’t. Then it feels like suffocation. Like his once-loving hands are now wrapped around your throat, reminding you of what little time you have left. Forcing you to realize that, instead of lying around living in ignorance of the task at hand, you should be helping —working alongside the rest of the party to complete your common goal. 

“I need to move, Astarion,” you tell him. Almost angrily, you press your hands to either side of his face, narrowing your eyes, watching the way he rolls his own and frowns.

“Zamrie said—“

“Oh, my Gods, forget what Zamrie said!” Before he can even protest you’re on your feet and moving towards the door, ignoring the way he huffs in response. Blocking out the sounds of his angered protests as you begin to pull on your boots. “I swear, if I don’t get out of this room I’m going to go insane!”

Surprisingly, he doesn’t do anything other than try to talk you out of it. Relaying each point of criticism with facts to back up his claims, watching the way your face twists in annoyance the longer you realize he’s right. 

Because despite mentally feeling alright aside from the lack of stimulus, you’re still exhausted. A feeling you hadn’t anticipated to take so long to recover from. Assuming you were under the hindrance of any other common illness, you figured you’d be back to normal in a few days tops. No longer feeling numb or shaky. But then again, you were dead. And for a while too, so unfortunately it makes sense as to why as you finish tying your first boot you’re already out of breath. Heavily panting against the warm air of the inn’s top floor as you glance to see Astarion’s smug look. 

“You know I’m right,” he says, and all you do is awkwardly walk back to the bed with your boot still on, collapsing face-first into the mattress with a groan. 

“I’m so bored.”

“And what do you want me to do about it?” 

In response, you merely grumble, feeling him roll you over so that he can untie the laces of your shoe, kneeling at the edge of the bed for better access as you let out a huff, unsure what to say.

Because really, there aren’t very many options left. Already you’ve read every book your party has and then some thanks to Gale and his lengthy trip to Sorcerer’s Sundries, as well as exhausted all your conversation topics. At this point, there’s nothing left but card games and sleeping and Astarion frequently cheats which leaves you with the most boring option. The one you’d rather suffer through the pain of activity than submit to, prompting you to look at Astarion with pleading eyes, praying that just this once he’ll give in. 

“Don’t look at me like that.” 

You narrow your eyes and wiggle your foot as he eventually discards your boot, quickly moving to kick his face in annoyance only to have him catch it before you make contact.

“If you don’t stop I’ll cast hold person on you,” he threatens then, moving to grip your knee and pull you towards the edge of the bed. Smirking at the sound of you squealing in amusement at the sudden shift in position. 

“You’d like that wouldn’t you?” you tease, but all he does is slowly maneuver himself above you, slotting his hips between your already spread legs. Ignoring the way your face contorts to showcase the sudden nerves that erupt. 

“I would because then you’d actually rest.” 

“But I am resting.” 

“Hm, are you?”

“I’m laying down aren’t I?”

“That’s different than resting, my love.” 

“Is it?”

Somehow he’s managed to distract you with conversation long enough for you not to notice he’s looming above you. Pressing his palms against the spaces next to your head —shifting the lower half of his body to lightly press against your own. 

Upon noticing this, you swallow hard and try not to smile. Forcing down the anxiety of Astarion’s mischievous gaze exploring your features —taking in the obvious temptation that’s begun to surface. 

“You don’t seem very tired,” he tells you. Teasing you in a way that has you rolling your eyes, allowing it to happen because, while you’ve exhausted a lot of options to entertain yourself, sex isn’t one of them. Considering the two of you have been too busy reuniting and making sure everything about your resurrection continued to go smoothly, the thought really hadn’t occurred to either of you. 

Far too lost in the simple touches of each other’s company, up until now it felt more important just to coexist. To relax and monitor rather than jump into something that could only result in complications. 

Which is a thought that sits at the back of your mind. Even as he leans down, nudging your nose with his —saying something flirtatious that you completely miss due to the passing thoughts that stroll through your head— you can’t help but wonder if it’s a good idea.

“Are you sure we—“

He cuts you off with a gentle kiss. One that lingers for a couple of seconds before it’s over and he’s grinning above you, moving to glide his thumb along your cheek. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to.“

“No, I just —is it right?” 

He scrunches up his face, looking at you in confusion. Making you realize how offensive your words probably sound. “Sorry, I don’t mean it like that.”

“Then how did you mean it?”

You take a minute to put together your thoughts, ignoring the way he longs for your answer. Feeling him shift slightly backwards in anticipation of your inevitable rejection. 

“Is this the right time to be doing this?”

He raises his brow and sort of laughs. “Do you mean that morally or?”

“Kind of?”

“Kind of?”

All you do is scoff in embarrassment, moving your hands to cover your face. “I just mean that… should we be having sex while the others are doing all the work?” 

Astarion really laughs at that, his voice practically rising a full octave as he swats away your hands, watching your annoyance only increase at his actions. “Seriously? That’s what you’re concerned about?”

“I feel like it’s a valid concern.” 

“Well, it’s not.” 

“Okay but I think—” 

He steals another kiss, ignoring the groan of protest that hits his lips. Opting to instead grab your cheek again, gliding his fingers against your skin. Feeling the way you almost immediately settle into his touch the moment he pulls away. 

“Darling, you and I both know the other’s don’t give a shit what we do. So long as it’s somewhat legal and doesn’t disturb their sleep.” 

Moving your hands to his torso, you practically sigh in defeat, pinching his hips with frustrated fingers as you lean up and kiss his chin. “I don’t know. I think Gale might be jealous if he comes back and sees us.”

As you fall back down he chases you instantly, enveloping your mouth in his a third time, knowing then that you’re surrendering. That instead of fighting the urge to make excuses, you’re allowing yourself to enjoy what he’s offering. To experience that connection without the added baggage of not knowing whether or not there’s feelings involved. 

Because now that you’ve admitted it —now that both of you have said those three little words, it feels completely different. After travelling and talking and experiencing that unfortunate blip of separation there’s a whole other dynamic that takes place.

For example, somehow his touch is gentler. And not because of your current physical setbacks. No, there’s something tender about it. As if the care he has for you has extended from his heart to his palms, guiding them in ways that make your chest tighten with newfound anticipation. Against your flesh, his fingers are delicately placed, slipping to grip the back of your neck, sprawling out to cover as much surface area as possible. 

Sighing into him, your thoughts wander to different positions. Imagining all of the ways the two of you might end up, you can feel your stomach twist with excitement. Your mouth curling up into an empty-minded smile, unaware of the joy that radiates between you. Too distracted by the happy sound he makes when you grip the waistline of his pants. 

“Does this serve as a good enough distraction for your boredom?” 

You hum and kiss him, eventually pulling back to nod. “Only if it’s okay.” 

For a moment he pauses, his expression turning from playful to serious. His eyes softening at the weight of your words, realizing that you mean it. That for once in his life he’s in control of his own pleasure. 

“I promise you, I wouldn’t offer if it wasn’t,” he eventually tells you, and all you do is beam. Moving your hands to his face, you look at him with affectionate pride, running your thumbs along the highpoint of his cheeks —pressing down as you pull him back to rest his forehead against yours.

“I love you so much,” you say, closing your eyes, hearing him softly hum in a way that rips the air right out of your lungs. Feeling the way he stiffens before he ultimately melts beneath your touch, allowing the full weight of his body to press against yours. 

“You mean the world to me,” he responds, moving to kiss your cheek before moving to the other before you open your eyes again to see him hovering above. “When I lost you I—“

You don’t interrupt him. Instead, you just press your lips together and offer a nod, watching his mind work through the blockage. 

“Losing you felt like losing hope. Like I was being shoved back into that blasted mausoleum all over again.” He pauses to swallow, watching you stare into his eyes, refusing to break the contact even though it’s obvious he wants to. “I don’t want to feel like that ever again. I can’t —I won’t.” 

Your hands move towards his shoulders, slowly weaving their way around his neck to pull him close. To let him feel the pounding heart inside your chest and how its pace quickens because of him.

“I know it may seem like I’m ungrateful a lot of the time —that I’m brash or unkind but don’t think for a second I take for granted what you feel for me.” His lips press against yours for a second before they’re separate again. “I love you and I won’t let anything more happen to you.”

As soon as he finishes you can’t help but pull him against your chest, placing a kiss to the crown of his head before resting your chin on top of it. “Mm, you really have a way with words don’t you?”

All he does is chuckle. “I would hope so after all the mindless chatter I’ve done over the last two centuries.”

“I’m sure you’ve swept your fair share of feet with that beautiful voice of yours.” 

He cranes his neck to look up at you. “My voice is pretty beautiful, isn’t it?”

“It’s like music to my ears, darling,” you tell him, partially mocking him as he scoffs in response and reaches for the nearest pillow to smother your already giggling face.

 “Don’t mock me.” 

Awkwardly moving to shove the pillow aside, you feel him shift against you as he sits up, grabbing both of your wrists and pinning them above your head. “Actually, you know what, I take back what I said —I actually hate you.”

“No you don’t.” 

You scrunch up your face in fake annoyance as he leans down again, giving you a chastising look. “I do. So much so that I don’t want to have sex with you anymore.”

“Oh, really?”

While nodding your head, you try your best to get him to release your wrists but to no avail, eventually sighing in response. “Yeah, I’d rather take a bath instead, I think. Get you to wash my hair or something.”

Without even protesting he just kisses your nose and rises from the bed, readying the bath. Taking it upon himself to focus on the task at hand rather than your lingering eyes staring at his dishevelled hair and the way his clothes have shifted out of place thanks to your roaming hands. Something that shouldn’t annoy you but does as you crave his attention. Finding yourself wanting desperately to keep him connected any way you can. 

Because despite knowing he’s here with you, sometimes he isn’t. Instead, sometimes he’s lost in far-off lands, travelling by himself in fear, trying desperately to get back. Behind his eyes, you can always tell when he’s absent because his eyes sort of shift out of focus, dismissing whatever’s directly in front of him in favour of relieving whatever awful memory’s been triggered. 

It breaks your heart. Ultimately spurring you to stand and move behind, wrapping your arms around him as he finishes up the bath. 

“C’mon, get it before it gets cold.” 

Despite wanting to playfully protest, you listen. Taking a reluctant step back while releasing his frame, you slowly begin to peel off your clothes, feeling his fingertips reach for your stomach as you throw your tunic over your head.

“Can I help you?” 

Looking down at his hand, you see his fingers draw patterns into your flesh. How they practically dance their way down to your waist before his other hand slips to the buttons of your trousers. 

“Other way around.”

You look at him, confused, prompting him to laugh. 

“Figured you could use a hand with these.” He tugs the button through the hole with one quick swipe, causing you to bite back a smirk and roll your eyes, allowing him to slowly drag the fabric down your legs. Watching as he moves to his knees along with it. 

Once there, he motions for you to step out of each pant leg, discarding the fabric entirely. Grinning up at you once you’re left only in your underwear. 

“Gods, you’re…” He doesn’t finish. Instead, he just kisses the inner portion of your thigh as he plays with the edge of the fabric, looking up at you with pleading eyes. The kind that you merely nod at, suddenly feeling nervous.

Because it’s been a while since he’s seen you like this. And even so, it continues to feel different. More intimate somehow as he moves at a leisurely pace, kissing your skin while exposing your sex. As it happens, you have to look away and take a breath, feeling everything shift past your thighs and knees, eventually moving to your calves and feet before there’s nothing against you. No fabric or hands or lips —only the suffocating air of the inn hitting your bare skin, forcing you to uncomfortably squirm as you look down. 

“Beautiful,” he mutters, and suddenly it feels like your heart is bursting against your chest, watching as he leans forward to pepper a few kisses along your upper legs, reaching for the scars that line your stomach —ignoring the way they twitch beneath his fingertips as he traces over them. “How about we get you into the tub before the water gets cold, hm?”

Almost nervously you nod, feeling him grip your hips for support as he moves to stand before guiding you into the tub without another word. 

-

TAGLIST:

@poohxlove @gaiasmight @sassy-stupid @novarex @v-gremlin @sapphiccloud @lipstickghoulie @kuroitsukyo @jjfchk @idiotsatan @bluestuesday @bloopthebat @art-by-greenie @heneralmoon @sukunababe @dreamingaboutyousworld @ranfithegood @haniscrying @liadamerondjarin @the-lake-is-calling @marina-and-the-memes @rookieoftheyear @zraloci-cpr @kaetmo @snickerdoodle-daydream @wowowwild @d1anna @raswiet @conniesbbymama @venus-wrts @demonicthorns @kihten @sanscas @spammypasta @leighsartworks216 @rose-gold-blue @p1ssmagg0t @hellish-writes @ghostinvenus @otayz @sexysquatch @sleepyeclair @colorful-anxieties @alina-exe @lillifer @girlwiththepapatattoo @acelin-ginsberg @pinkuranium @catrad0rable @scarletrosesposts @qwnamidala @itsrosebabe @bunnyperi @queenofcarrotflowers-s @tatumadams20 @spkyxszn @chlort @f3v3rs @awkwardwookie @joy-the-reader @warm-milk-with-honey-blog @vertigocrime @iyis @wildpiper @pebblethestone @tillywasneverhere @bex-03 @revemiya @staticspouse @itzagothamcitysiren

(taglist continued in reblogs)

[cheoliehansolie]

Green Mangoes

Summary: When Chan catches you eating green mangoes, he can't help but spiral.

Word Count: ~ 2.3k

Pairing: Lee Chan x fem reader

Warnings: mentions of pregnancy

an: This was something that I mainly wrote for myself because I found it funny in my head so if it's not funny or entertaining, that's why. As always, if you liked reading this, please reblog or leave a comment. If you have any suggestions or you just want to talk, send me an ask and we can be friends 💕

To read more, check out my masterlist.

---

You had been up for a few hours enjoying the little alone time you get since you moved in with your boyfriend. You and Chan recently moved in together and while you love spending time with him, sometimes you miss living on your own which is why you find comfort in the silent mornings.

Chan got home pretty late last night from practice which is why he was in bed at 10:30 in the morning. It was a win-win situation, you got your morning alone and Chan got to make up for the sleep he missed out on.

You had spent your morning making breakfast and reading once you finished eating, and now you were sitting on your couch nursing a cup of tea and watching an Indian comedy show. Normally when you and Chan watch TV together, you steer clear of those types of shows since Chan won’t be able to understand them. 

But now with Chan sound asleep in your bedroom, you’re giggling quietly to yourself as you watch the different skits unfold on screen. To your surprise, less than five minutes later, you hear the door of your shared bedroom open and out walks your sleepy boyfriend, hair adorably messy.

“Good morning, babe.” you say from your seat on the couch.

“Morning.” he says tiredly as he makes his way to the couch to join you.

“I didn’t wake you, right?” you ask, concern lacing your voice as you card your fingers through his disheveled hair. 

Chan melts into your touch and responds, “No, I didn’t feel like staying in bed any longer. I also wanted to cuddle with you but you weren’t there any more.” he whines.

“Aww, well I’m here now so we can cuddle. Let me just get situated” you say.

You put your empty tea mug on the coffee table in front of you and lift the blanket on your lap gesturing for him to join you. Chan wastes no time getting comfy under the blanket and wrapping his arms around your waist.

“Do you want me to change the channel?” you ask, drawing attention to the comedy show playing on the TV.

“No, it’s fine. I’m not really paying attention to it anyways.” he says and you feel him drawing small shapes on your body.

“Suit yourself.” you say as you bring your attention back to the show.

A few minutes later, you’re still snuggled into Chan’s arms and you find yourself letting out a soft scandalized gasp at the conversation unfolding on screen.

“What happened?” Chan asks, instantly curious as he peers up at your face through his lashes.

“Basically, those two people on stage are husband and wife and they’re talking about an argument they had. See that guy standing to the side?” you ask, pointing to the screen.

“Yeah, what about him?”

“He said something along the lines of ‘stop giving her reasons to argue with you and instead give her a reason to eat green mangoes’ to the husband.”

“What does that mean?” Chan asks, enjoying listening to you explain things to him.

“Apparently women crave sour foods when they’re pregnant so the other guy is basically telling the husband to get his wife pregnant.”

Your boyfriend chuckles slightly and he doesn’t think much of the conversation as he continues snuggling into your side. But a few days later, he’s instantly reminded of that moment as he stands in the entryway of your shared living room.

Chan had spent the entire day in the studio working with Sonnyoung and the other Performance Team members to think of choreography for their upcoming comeback, but they had hit a wall. Soonyoung decided to let the guys go sooner than expected because everyone was getting frustrated.

Chan was excited that he’s able to leave earlier so he can spend more time with you. He didn’t tell you he was coming home sooner so he could surprise you but when he comes in, he sees you scrolling on your phone, mid snack.

Normally he would be happy that you were remembering to take breaks to rest and eat, but standing there in the door frame of your living room, he feels like he can’t breathe. There you are sitting peacefully on the couch with a small glass bowl next to you, phone in one hand, fork in the other. Skewered on the fork is none other than a piece of green mango.

As you bring the fork to your mouth, you realize that your boyfriend is silently standing a few feet away from you.

“Oh my god, babe! Why are you just standing there? You scared me!” you complain.

Shocked by your sudden outburst, Chan’s broken out of his spiraling thoughts and brought back to the present moment.

“Sorry, I was zoning out.” Chan feebly explains as he makes his way to the couch.

“Why’re you home so early? I thought practice wasn’t supposed to end until later?”

“It was supposed to end later, but we hit a wall and nothing was getting done so Hoshi hyung let us leave early.” 

“Ahh, I see. I still have a little work left to do, so I’m gonna go finish that. I should be done soon and we can spend time together after.”

“Okay, I’ll be here. Don’t overwork yourself, it’s not good for you.” Chan says with a small smile on his face as you get up and make your way to your desk.

Once you leave, Chan can’t help but wonder why you didn’t say anything about being pregnant. Were you not planning on telling him yet? He did come home earlier than anticipated today. Maybe you were eating the mango because you thought he wouldn’t be here to see you.

Chan spends the next two hours obsessively googling about how to support your partner through pregnancy. After reading a bunch of different articles, Chan decides that he won’t bring up the pregnancy unless you do. You have the right to tell him whenever you feel comfortable, and he figures that maybe you’re still trying to come to terms with it yourself and he doesn’t want to add more pressure to that. 

A few minutes later, you return to the living room ready to spend time with your boyfriend after a long day.

“Hey babe.” Chan says when he sees you. “Do you need anything?”

“No, I’m fine. I just finished work so now we can make dinner together.”

“You want to make dinner? Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Chan asks, immediately worried that you could be overworking yourself.

“Okay I know I’m not as good at cooking as Mingyu, but my food isn’t that bad!” you whine, softly hitting Chan’s shoulder.

“Babe, that’s not what I meant.” Chan whines. “I just thought you’ve been working a lot lately and you should take a break. I’ll make dinner for us tonight, you should rest.”

“Ooookay.” you say, feeling suspicious as to what Chan’s doing.

“What do you want for dinner? Are you craving anything?” Chan asks.

“Hmm, not really. Why don’t you surprise me?”

“Okay, one surprise coming right up!” Chan exclaims dramatically as he saunters off into the kitchen, enticing a few giggles from you.

You couldn’t help but feel a little weird that Chan was being a bit too nice, but you decide to overlook it and enjoy your time alone on the couch. A little less than an hour later, your boyfriend returns to the living room announcing that dinner is ready.

Before you can get up to go to the kitchen to grab your plate, Chan places a plate of hot food in front of you.

“You made my favorite!” you exclaim as you toss your phone to the side to take the plate from Chan’s hands.

“I tried my best, but I don’t know if it tastes as good as when you make it.” he says sheepishly as he rubs the back of his neck.

“Well, it smells great and even if it does taste bad – which I doubt it does – I’ll still eat it since you made it for me.” you say with a reassuring smile on your face.

Taking a bite of the food in front of you, you can’t help it when your eyes widen at the taste.

“What? Does it not taste good?” Chan asks.

“Babe, it tastes really good. I love it.” you say with a bright smile as you continue eating.

“I’m glad.” Chan says softly. He couldn’t help but feel proud of himself.

The rest of the meal is filled with the two of you laughing at each other’s jokes and talking about your respective days. Before you know it, the plates in front of you are empty.

When you’re about to get up to do the dishes and clean the kitchen, Chan stops you.

“What’re you doing?” Chan asks you.

“I’m going to wash the dishes and clean the kitchen?” you say, confused as to why he finds this strange.

Normally when one of you cooks, the other person cleans. Since Chan cooked for the both of you today, it seemed obvious to you that you would be on clean up duty today.

“Let me clean, you sit and rest.” Chan says as he tries to take the plate from your hand.

“Rest from what, Chan? I’ve been sitting on this couch for the past 2 hours doing nothing but resting. What’s gotten into you today?” you ask as you firmly hold the plate in your hand, refusing to let him take it from you.

“I just thought you could use the extra rest, given your condition and all.” Chan says.

“‘Given my condition’? What’s that supposed to mean? I’m totally fine.” you say, slightly agitated.

Chan mentally facepalms himself. He told himself that he wouldn’t bring up the pregnancy unless you did and now here he was, bringing up the pregnancy.

“You know what, never mind.” Chan says, trying to brush it off.

You weren’t gonna let him off that easily.

“What do you mean never mind? You just insinuated that there’s something wrong with me and I need to rest, but now when I ask you about it you won’t say anything? What’s up with that?” you ask him.

“Well, I just didn’t want to pressure you into talking about it if you weren’t ready. I didn’t know if you wanted to share it with me or not.” Chan says.

“Pressure me into talking about what? Chan, you’re going to have to explain yourself a little more clearly because I’m completely lost.” you say, becoming less angry and more confused.

“The pregnancy!” Chan exclaims. “I know that you’re pregnant but I didn’t want to bring it up in case you didn’t want to talk about it yet. A bunch of articles online said not to bring it up unless you brought up the topic yourself and I didn’t want to pressure you into telling me you’re pregnant.”

There’s a few beats of silence as you try to process the words that just came out of your boyfriend’s mouth.

“Pregnant? Babe, I’m not pregnant. Who told you I’m pregnant?”

“Wait, you’re not pregnant?” Chan asks. Now it was his turn to be confused.

“No, and if I was pregnant, you would be the first person I would tell. I wouldn’t keep that from you. But why’d you think I’m pregnant?”

“I don’t wanna tell you, you’re gonna laugh at me.” Chan whines, hiding his face in his hands.

“Babe, I promise I won’t laugh at you. Can you please, please, please tell me why you thought I was pregnant? If you don't, I'm just gonna assume that you think I’ve gained weight.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just,” Chan pauses and takes a deep breath, “you were eating a green mango when I got home earlier and I remember you telling me a few days ago that women crave sour foods when they’re pregnant so I just kinda assumed. Ugh, it sounds so stupid when I say it out loud.”

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of your chest. You were trying so hard not to laugh at your boyfriend, but you couldn’t help it. You just found it so funny that he would jump to conclusions like that.

“Hey, you said you wouldn’t laugh at me.” Chan whines as he lifts his face from his hands.

“I’m sorry, I just can’t help it. It’s a little funny, you have to admit.” you say as you lean closer to give him a comforting hug.

“Okay, maybe it is a little funny.” Chan says as he lets out a small giggle.

“See! You can’t blame me!” you say as you burst into another fit of giggles.

Once the two of you have finally calmed down, you’re both reminded of the small mess in front of you and the bigger mess in the kitchen.

“So, since I know you’re not pregnant, do you wanna clean the kitchen for me?” Chan asks.

“What happened to ‘I’ll clean, you should rest on the couch’?” you ask, teasing him.

“Fine, I guess since I offered, I’ll follow through. I am a man of my word.” Chan says, determination heavy in his voice.

“I’m just kidding, of course I’ll clean up.” you say.

“Fine, but at least let me help.” Chan says.

“If you want to help, I’m not gonna stop you.” you say as the two of you make your way into the kitchen.

When you get to the entryway of the kitchen, you can’t help but just stand there with your eyes wide.

“Lee Jung Chan! Look at the mess you made! I can’t believe you! You dirtied every dish in this house!” you exclaim as you scold him.

Chan silently wishes that he didn’t take up the offer to help you clean. The entire time the two of you spent cleaning the kitchen was filled with you nagging him about the mess he made. But he knows he wouldn’t have it any other way.

[lastoneout]

Got asked if I had any tips for new artists during my stream today and I figured I'd put them here too:

Draw, seriously, just do it. This is the hardest part and also the most crucial. Just run at it screaming and refuse to back down. You just gotta do it.

Always do your wrist/arm/shoulder stretches before drawing and make sure to take breaks to stretch/re-center yourself if you've been going for a few hours or more! (Here's the stretches I do, and they help with gaming and writing and desk work too, they're just a good idea all around!)

Try to draw less from the wrist and more from the shoulder(move your arm more and your wrist less basically). That and stretches will help you avoid carpal tunnel which is never fun.

Consistency is only something you need to worry about if you're like, working in the industry/doing some types of commissions(like an twitch emote bundle or a comic book). If you're just starting out or only drawing for yourself it literally doesn't matter. Like, I don't think I've ever drawn a character exactly the same way twice, it's fine.

Don't do warm up drawings, do warm up scribbles. Doodles circles and squares and lines and swirls until you feel nice and lose, then start actually drawing.

If you're between 50-90% done with something and you REALLLY start to hate it, keep going. You just gotta power through, cuz chances are it's perfectly fine(or even really good) and your monkey brain is being a jackass coward chugging that impostor syndrome juice.

If you finish and you still hate it put it away until tomorrow or the day after and then look again. Never EVER trust your negative opinions about your art(or anything) if it's after like 8pm.

Re: the above points, as an exampke last night I HATED my new pngtuber model that I'd spent literally all day on. Went to bed and in the morning was like "oh this is good actually". Trust me, tired burnt out you is not a good judge of quality, especially the quality of something you've been staring at for like 4-5 hours.

If, after all that, you still hate it, that's okay too. It's a bummer, but don't try to force yourself to like something just cuz you spent a lot of time on it. Chalk it up to experience and move on to the next thing!

Do everything in your power to not compare yourself to others. It won't get you anywhere. Instead learn to look at other people's art and find what you like about it and try to break it down or do it that way yourself. Dont fully copy/trace ofc, but really think about how something looks and see if you can figure out why you like it and/or how it's done.

OH MY GOD USE REFERENCES. Anyone who says not to use references is talking out of their ass. You think figure drawing classes are bad?? That artists draw from life just for shits and giggles?? No, its because you need to know what shit looks like to draw it!!! USE REFERENCES!!!

Same with youtube tutorials, especially for learning to use digital art programs. Do take everything with a grain of salt ofc(we've all seen the "masculine vs feminine eyes" shit or the trash trend of "I fix my viewer's bad art uwu" ignore that crap) but you can learn all kinds of shit for free on youtube.

If you can feel yourself burning out fucking stop drawing a take a break. Even if you're in the middle of something, or part of you wants to keep drawing. Burn outs suck and it's gonna take a lot longer to get over it if you push yourself until you crash instead of just acknowledging that you're hitting your limit and stopping for a few days. The art will be there when you get back, your health should always come first!

If someone tells you thick line art or anime style or whatever is bad, ignore them. All art is subjective. Draw what you want how you want. Even if it's all thick line art or you stick to sketches or only do anime stuff or chibis or humans or furries or goddamn stick figures just draw literally whatever. If this is just a hobby for you there's no reason to push yourself. Draw what makes you happy, fuck everyone else.

Anyway that's all I've got for now, might add more tomorrow when I'm less tired(and I encourage additions for other artists as I'm self taught and had to learn most of this the hard way and thus I'm sure I've missed stuff) but yeah, just draw my dudes, this is supposed to be fun. You deserve to have fun.

[iggydabirdkid]

So this was supposed to be a short thing. And it turned into the seconds longest thing I've written 😅 Don't @ me with when this is set because I got no clue. Sometime after the end of Retribution at least, with Annie being more open despite the situation. Enjoy!

My Ao3

Title: Anniversary

Word Count: 6258

-----

You’ve been awake for longer than a human body is supposed to go without sleep. You’re not quite sure why. No that’s a lie. You don’t like to sleep, or more accurately, you dread the dreams that sleep brings. The nightmares that wrap you up so tight, dig their claws into your soul and slip in through the scars left in your marbled skin.  

You suppose you have slept, in a way. Your body has at least. Jumping into to other people’s minds is the only way to sooth the aches and pains of your own form but recently things have felt… off. You’re not sure why, but it’s such a gut feeling that even in bodies so different from your own your mind refuses to switch to match. Leaving your brain to run into overtime. Clocking hours that would normally be spent furthering your plans and instead leaving you feeling drained and jittery. Because your mind is the most important part of you. It is you. It’s all that you are.

You’re not even running on fumes. At this point you’re a tank that’s been empty for a concerning amount of time, struggling to keep on moving as it splutters and coughs.

You know it’s dangerous. Even for someone like you so used to restless nights. There must be something else that keeps sleep at bay. Something your addled mind can’t remember. A shadowed blur out the corner of your vision has your head snapping to the side. You stare wide-eyed and unblinking at the empty kitchen space where you swear… You struggle to your feet, abandoning the comfort of your couch in favour of checking your cabinets, draws, nothing out of place. Nothing amiss. You rub your hands over your face as you sigh and the temptation of sleep tugs at your weary limbs.

The high-pitched screeching of something cuts through your thoughts and you jump. Your heart stutters in your chest and it takes you far longer than you’d like to recognize the shrill ring of your mobile. Even longer to remember that it’s snug in your pocket. You fumble for the device, feeling like its buzzing may time out and you answer the call before checking to see who it is.

“Hello?” you mumble, voice quiet as you lean your hip against your kitchen counter.

“Hey Annie. Sorry, did I wake you?” Julia. Of course. You hope the huff you make sounds more like a laugh than it feels to your ears.

“I wasn’t sleeping,” you reply, “What’s up? Something the matter?” you ask.

“Does something have to be wrong for me to call you?” you can picture the grin on the other end, yet something in her tone sounds different than it would do if she were simply teasing you.

“No. But you normally call me for a reason.”

“Maybe it’s just to hear your voice?”

“Ha ha Julia.”

The silence that stretches afterwards turns awkward when neither of you speaks. You’re struggling enough as it is staying upright, forcing coherent sentences through your lips as your mind buzzes. You don’t know what her excuse is.

“Annie?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you okay?”

“Why do you ask?” You frown as your gaze wanders over the expensive furniture of your open plan living space.

“Because of what day it is?” her voice sounds strained, though that may just be your imagination.

“What day it is?” you parrot back, unable to form a better answer.

“You don’t… Do you not…” You sigh.

“Haven’t been super good at keeping track of things the last few… well… most of my life really,” you chuckle then. Self-deprecation is always your go to.

“Nooo, really?”

“Smartass.” Her turn to laugh now, the sound is brief and light and ends far too soon to be anything other than an expected reaction.

“Do you really not know the day, or are you just pretending?” she sounds skeptical and you don’t blame her.

“Jules, I can’t even remember what I had for breakfast this morning. Or if I even ate breakfast at all.” You didn’t. You can feel your stomach knawing away at your insides yet you can’t find it in yourself to care.

“It’s the anniversary of… of Heartbreak.”

Oh.

You feel your breath stopper in your throat and the space before you seems to stretch out into an eternity, becoming narrow and cramped as you feel sweat bead on your forehead and roll down your back. The air seems too warm and there’s a buzzing in your ears and an aching in your legs and you can’t focus-

“-nie? Annie? Are you still there?”

It takes you a while to reply and you feel like it took just as long for Julia’s words to reach you.

“Still here.” Your voice is hoarse and your vision swims.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t. Just…” you trail off as you struggle to find the right words, any words, “Did you really just call to remind me of a day I’d rather not think about?” You’d erase the entire nightmare from your mind if you could. Scour the ridges of your brain till they bled but where would that leave you then? Who would you be without your trauma binding the pieces of you together?

“I normally spend this day inside, alone. But I thought, maybe you wanted to come over?”

“Come over.” You repeat. You don’t want her to see you like you are now. You know you can’t look good. But what else could you say that wouldn’t make her even more worried than she must already be. If you were in better shape you could probably think of an excuse, a way to wriggle free of this impending encounter. But you’re not, so you can’t, so instead you let out a long sigh as you tilt your head back and stare at the ceiling, lights flickering above not quite there. You close your eyes, “Sure. Sure.” She must hear it in your voice. Your reluctance.

“You don’t have to.”

“I said I’m coming alright.” You will your words to sound harsh but you can’t muster the energy, “I’ll be there when I can.”

“Alright,” her voice is soft and your heart aches, “Be safe.”

You hang up, let your arms drop to your sides and stare into space with your brain thinking of nothing. This is a bad idea. You feel like you’re floating, tethered by a single thread as you stare down at yourself from above. Aware of your body while the world around you feels false and fickle. You can almost hear Doctor Finch’s voice in your mind, and then you do hear her and you snap back as your head shoots up just in time to see a shimmer of a form fading fast from your eye. Your hand clenches tight around your phone and you push off from the counter.

You really do need to sleep. But now you have plans. And cancelling them will only lead to Julia snooping. And that above all, is what you don’t need right now.

+++++

It takes all the willpower you have to keep your legs moving and your eyes open and the whispers at bay. It’s not safe for you to be out but if you can make it to Julia’s you’ll be safe. She can keep you safe. Her static will help if anything. And if not? Well then maybe just having another presence by your side will be enough.

Your hands are deep in your pockets, your fingers curled into fists gouging crescent shaped grooves into your palms as your feet move you forwards with no thought. You think you’re drawing blood but the sharp piercing pain helps ground you just enough for your vision to clear and you realize you’re outside Julia’s apartment. You have no idea how you managed to get here in one piece, let alone how long it took you. You stand on the sidewalk and you know there must be bleed over. You know you have to be projecting as no one gets close to you. Skirting around your bubble and crossing the street before drawing near and normally you would put that up to you just being you. With your dead-eyed stare and general leave me alone expression but when you turn your head to watch those around you, you find them staring back.

All of them. Staring. With eyes the same shade of green.

Dead eyes.

Her eyes.

“Annie?”

The voice startles you enough that you stumble, almost tripping over a crack in the pavement before you regain your footing. Julia stands before you with an open face plastered with concern. Its not an expression she wears much around you anymore. You had been doing better. Had being the key word.

“Are you okay?” she asks with a slight tilt of her head. She’s been growing her hair out and it spills around her shoulders, framing her face with waves of chestnut brown streaked with shoots of grey. A smile finds its way onto your face and through the haze that is your vision you see her frown deepen as she takes a step towards you. The late day sun illuminates her form and her warm brown eyes are flecked with the subtlest hints of gold…

“Annie?” she’s right in front of you now and one hand reaches for your face. You let her, too tired to protest and she cups your jaw and you lean into her touch, “Are you okay?” she repeats. Firmer this time but no less soft.

“Just tired,” you mumble as you close your eyes.

“You sure?” her free hand finds one of yours and you lace your fingers together.

“Mhm.” You open your eyes and your vision blurs again and she smiles at you sadly as she drops her hand.

“Come on.” She motions towards the door with a jut of her head and her static is already working wonders. Blanketing your mind in comforting white noise and when she goes to pull your hands apart your grip hers harder, too hard if her wince is anything to go by and you wonder what she sees when she looks back at you. Trying to keep it together and if you didn’t have her hand in a death grip it would be shaking. She opens her mouth to speak but then closes it without saying a word, grips your hand tighter, and leads you inside.

The doorman gives you a quick nod and you spy a flash of green in his otherwise hazel eyes. You squeeze your own shut and allow Julia to lead the way but when your foot hits the bottom of a step, your eyes fly open.

You always take the stairs so of course she would think nothing of taking them now. But she wasn’t with you, didn’t see what you saw with her mind protected as it is so she doesn’t know. You take a few steps back, pulling your hand free as you fight to keep your fraying composure.

“Annie?” She approaches slowly with her arms out showing her intent and you shake your head, clamping your mouth shut as you plant your feet firmly on the ground. She stops and backs off, lips pursed and brows drawn and your arms are ramrod straight at your side as you gaze at the stairwell. Its shape twists and melts in front of you, “How can I help?” She steps into your line of sight and you blink out of the trance you had been falling into. You move your head to look for the elevator that you know is here somewhere- ah. There.

“Can we take the elevator?”

“Yeah of course.”

You know she’s worried about you. You’re worried about you. Pressed up to her side as you are, you’re thankful that she stays quiet during the short ride to her floor.

/////

You step into her apartment and as she closes and locks the door behind you with a short beep you finally feel as if you can breathe. The second floor isn’t as far above the world as your apartment, but any distance between you and the minds of those consumed in the rat race of everyday life is a blessing. You breathe in deep through your nose, hold the breath for a few beats, and finally exhale long and hard through your mouth. The sound is audible in the quiet space and as you turn you realize that Julia is stood by the entrance, watching you with folded arms and a small smile.

“Hey,” she speaks as she pushes off from where she’d been leaning back against the door. You meet her halfway, linking your arms around her middle as you bury your face in the crook of her neck. You inhale her scent as she hugs you tightly, humming a tune you don’t recognize as she rocks you side to side. It’s nice. In this moment. Quiet and calming, comfortable. Safe. The whispers don’t seem so sinister here and the pull of sleep is dangerously strong. Your eyes flutter close and you feel yourself relax entirely. That is until strong hands grab your shoulders and squeeze, “Annie? Hey!”

The voice is loud and irritating and you feel yourself scowl almost out of reflex as you jerk upright and blink rapidly before finding the floor beneath your feet again. Her hands are gripping you vice-like, concern drawing her features tight and suddenly her touch feels caustic so you pull away abruptly, tearing free of her hands, “Don’t shout at me,” you snap, resisting the urge to sneer as you turn and take a seat on the couch.

“Annie what’s wrong?” she comes to stand in front of you and you lean back into the cushions as you look up at her, “Please, just tell me what’s wrong so I can help.”

“I told you,” you start, “I’m just tired.”

“Bullshit. This isn’t just regular fatigue, I should know.” She would know. Shit. You can’t even come up with a convincing argument. Your brain is just a mass of fog and constant noise.

“I haven’t been sleeping.”

“Well?”

“At all.”

“For how long Annie?”

You just grimace and attempt a shrug but your shoulders barely move, “I was busy. Keeping myself busy, I think. To avoid thinking about…” you trail off and your gaze slips from her face as you stare at your reflection in the dark of her tv screen. It’s probably just your rotten mind, but you swear your eyes are emitting a subtle glow. When your words don’t return to you Julia lowers herself to the couch.

“It’s alright,” she hushes, “You don’t have to continue.” You sigh and lean against her completely, resting your head upon the solidness of a broad shoulder as you close your eyes.

“I’m so tired Jules.” She strokes your hair and you feel her shift, leaning forwards before an arm wraps around your shoulders.

You hear a click as a sound fills the apartment and when you open your eyes you see the scenes of an old movie playing upon the tv.

“It’ll be some background noise,” Julia tells you before she starts to move again. Lifting one leg up and trying to squeeze it behind your back, you shuffle forwards as she stretches the limb across the length of the couch, “Here,” she says and you turn your head to fix her with a wry smile, “Not like that!” She laughs and wraps her arms around you, drawing you into her as she leans backwards into the couch. You rest your cheek against her sternum and turn onto your side as you listen to the steady thumping of her heart. You watch as she lifts her other leg onto the couch to keep you from rolling off and now you are confined within her limbs, kept safe by the presence of her body, “Sleep Annie,” she whispers as she trails her fingers feather-light down your back, “I’ll be right here.”

And that’s enough.

You don’t fight it when your eyes start to close and the tendrils of sleep ensnare your mind and drag you down into the dark.

+++++

In the depths of sleep you find yourself somewhere familiar. You used to come here often with them both. The diner, the dumpster of which Julia found you in the first time you ever set your eyes on her. The first place you ever sat down to eat as a group. The place you’re sitting in right now.

The scene seems far more solid than it ever has, due to your fatigue perhaps? You have a sense, a terrible feeling however that that isn’t it. That it’s because Julia just had to remind you of what today was. But you think your mind knew all along. Somewhere deep down, buried amongst the memories of your daily routine. You don’t have a calendar for a reason but it seems that the incident has been imprinted onto your soul and are you really surprised at that?

A bell chimes out signaling that someone else has entered the establishment and you frown as you turn in your seat, only to see the door swing shut with no one in sight. Still, you keep on staring until the world past the windows starts to morph into a view that has fear spiking through your chest. You spin back around and almost fall out of the booth in surprise as an all too familiarly freckled face stares back at you with a wide and toothy grin.

“Anathema?”

“Miss me?” she grins. You close your eyes and rub your hands over your face. You don’t need this. Not now. Not today. Not with other memories oh so close to the surface.

“You know I do,” you confess in a moment of weakness and when you look back at her the smile has fallen to be replaced by an expression of guilt.

“I’m sorry,” she says and you laugh.

“You’re sorry?” you reply, the absurdity of it all shaping your mouth into a grin, “I should be the one apologizing to you!” The brief moment of mania passes as you breathe out, “It’s my fault you’re dead after all.”

“Don’t say that Annie. Please don’t say that.” She sounds like she’s pleading and you can’t look at her, “It’s no one’s fault but that things’.” You watch her hands sizzle as she clenches them into fists and you lean away, an unease making its home in your stomach.

“I held you back because I was getting a migraine. A fucking migraine!” you spit out in anger and she tilts her head, smile going sad as her orange curls bounce around her cherub face.

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing!” you shout and your voice echoes through the diner, the world seeming to shake along with your unjust anger. She flinches, jerking her hands back across the table and onto her lap as her eyes flit away from you. You wince, your face pulling into a grimace as you reach for her across the wooden surface, “I just…” you trail off, “I don’t know what this is.”

“What do you mean?” she asks, still not facing you.

“This place, this situation, these strange meetings cooked up by a mind on the brink.”

“Maybe it’s your guilty conscience?” your frown as she meets your gaze head on, something dangerous sparking behind those green eyes.

“I… Maybe. Shit.” You bury your hands into your hair as you drop your head, “I wish I had done something more,” you mumble at the table, “I wish I had stopped you. I wish we had never gone inside that fucking building.” Your fingers are like a vice on the back of your skull, “You were my best friend.” Your voice cracks as your face warms, “And now the only time I see you is in my dreams when my brain and body are so fucked that I struggle to wake up at all.”

“I know. I know.” Her voice sounds garbled and you sniff, blinking back tears, “And I am sorry Annie. I’m sorry you had to see that.” Her words sound strained and as you hear the tell-tale sound of her acid eating away at the table you think you were wrong to assume it was emotion that had taken control of her voice, “I never wanted you to see that.”

DON’T LOOK

The voice screams in the back of your head but you are powerless in this mindscape, your hands dropping to the table with a muted thud, hardly heard over you struggling to breathe. Your head moves slowly, so slowly, to look up at your friend and a shock of fear so potent you feel your heart stop, floods through your veins.

Acid eating away at her hands. The smell of rot and iron heavy in the air.

Not again. Please.

She’s raising her hands towards her face and your brain is screaming at you to do something.

Do something.

DO SOMETHING!!!

You lunge forwards and take a hold of her wrists like you wish you had all those years ago.

“Themmy stop! Please!” You’re pleading, crying. You can feel tears roll down your cheeks and you watch as the image of your hands shimmers like a mirage from skin and scars, to gloves of turquoise and grey, “Please stop.”

“I can’t.” Moving still, even though you are tugging with all your strength, “You can’t help me.”

“Why?!” you croak. Keep pulling. Keep holding. Even though the scent of death envelops you like a blanket in winter.

“Because you didn’t save me then.” Her arms slip from your grasp like you weren’t even holding on. Because you weren’t. You hadn’t. She’s right, “I never wanted you to see me die.” You watch in horror, frozen on the spot just like you had been and the world around you begins to split at the seams, visions of a dark hallway peeking through the cracks.

You’re helpless. Useless. And all you can do is watch as she grasps her face with her hands.

You’ve had years of new memories, good and bad, to try block out the sound of acid chewing away at flesh.

You should never have bothered.

She doesn’t even scream as her eyes pop and her skin sloughs off her skull, the bone shiny and white and not at all like it had been. But all you can focus on is the rancid smell of burning meat and the fact that she is still seated and her mouth is still moving, still trying to talk despite her tongue now sitting on the table before you.

And you can hear her.

Even though your mind is screaming at you to wake up.

Her words sound like dry grass and ash beneath boots.

“I never wanted to die.”

/////

You wake with an abruptness you didn’t think possible.

A desperate cry of her name flies from your mouth as you clamber to your feet, reaching for a figure no longer present. Your heart thunders an unsteady rhythm in your chest and you’re sweating enough that you hair sticks to your forehead and you clothes lay plastered against your skin. Your feet are rooted to the ground and your vision flickers in time with you roiling stomach.

A voice speaks up behind you and you can’t make out the words but you can’t turn, won’t turn. Don’t look. There’s a shimmer to the air and a heat at your back and you heave in desperate breaths to inflate your struggling lungs but it’s no use.

The room shifts and slides, changing right in front and all around before solidifying as a scene that causes a wheeze of a whimper to leave you. The apartment shrinks into focus, the carpet a dirty brown beneath your feet but this can’t be real. You know this can’t be real. You know. You know. (Do you?) But you’re panicking. You know the signs. Trembling body, shaking hands, head full of noise and unable to focus.

You need to move but there’s a window in the way.

The glass cracks, spiderweb lines spreading from a focal point created by something you can’t see.

You can see your reflection however.

And it doesn’t belong to you.

Snaking cables and inky darkness and something moving, sliding its way through the black and if you look down you can see the crack in the pavement four floors below. The smell of rot and antiseptic is overpowering and there’s a hand on your back, just between your shoulders blades and you fall forwards into nothing-

.

.

.

Your hands are buried in the shag rug of Julia’s living room, fingers curled and gripping it like a lifeline as you empty your stomach of its contents all over the designer pattern. Not much comes up, you don’t think you’ve eaten for at least a day but still the bile burns your throat and lips and stains the throw a lovely shade of yellow. There’s a figure besides you and a hand in the middle of your back and you have to remind yourself of where you are to keep from flinching away at the contact. You manage. Barely.

You dry heave and retch until there’s nothing left for you to do but sit back on your haunches as you wipe the back of your hand across your mouth and stare at the puddle soaking into the fibers. The shape at your side vanishes only to return a few moments later, warm hands handing you a cool glass which you take gratefully between your shaking ones. You close your eyes briefly as you swallow back any remnants before you bring the glass to your lips to wash the rest away. You drain the water in one go, alternating between gasps of breath and swallowing down air as the glass is pried from your fingers. You close your eyes again and the world stops spinning long enough for you to feel Julia slip a hand into one of your own.

“S’rry about the rug,” you choke on the stretched laugh that forces itself up your throat. She doesn’t take the bait.

“You’re not well Annie.”

“Tell me something I don’t know…” you grumble, “It looks worse then it is.” When you look to the side she stares back with an eyebrow raised so high it almost disappears into her hairline, “Physically I’m fine. I just haven’t slept in 3 days and, well, that’s about the time when hallucinations tend to start.”

“Jesus Annie. Maybe you should move your appointment with Doctor Finch forwards?”

Your fingers twitch, “… Maybe,” you concede, “But I’m more after an immediate solution, unless you want me to paint your furniture some more?” you smirk and she huffs, a flicker of a smile brightening her features just a touch.

“I think I still have some sleeping pills lying around somewhere.”

Knowing her they’ll be strong ones. They should knock you out deep enough that not even the nightmares will be able to dig their greasy fingers into you. You nod and let her help you to your feet. The tv is off now, the remote discarded on the floor and you almost step on it as you flop down onto the couch. She leaves you again, footsteps soft as she heads into depths of her apartment and you hunch forwards with a groan, placing your elbows on your knees as you bury your face in your hands. How mortifying. You’re thankful that the smell of bile is almost imperceptible though you still swallow back your nausea as you hear the tap in the kitchen run briefly before Julia returns.

“Here.”

The couch dips besides you and you sit up, one hand reaching for the refilled glass while the other turns palm up, allowing her to deposit the pills into your waiting grasp. You swallow both at the same time, flushing them away with water before placing the half-empty glass back on the table in front of you.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Silence falls but as you look to her face to find her features shifting and mouth twisting you know there’s something on her mind.

“I can’t help unless you say something. Can’t read your mind remember?” you chuckle.

“Do you want to talk about it?” You go rigid and snap your gaze away as you clench you hands in your lap. Julia laughs quietly, “What a stupid question. Of course you don’t.” You smirk and your hands unfurl as you straighten out the fabric of your pants, “Can I ask you a question at least?” she asks.

“Might not answer it, but sure.”

“Do you dream about her often?” The question is soft, hesitant. And yet you still tense up, the scent of death reasserting itself over anything else. You blow out a breath, push those thoughts, that smell (those sounds) from your mind as you try pull your shields a little tighter, “Annie?” a hand on your own and you can’t look at her.

“Yeah I do.”

“I’m sorry.” That makes you laugh.

“That’s what she always says.” The smile on your face is as fake as your sobriety and you lean back into the couch as you close your eyes. Julia nestles against your side, knees touching and your mind begins to drift along the waves of static noise afforded by her proximity. You can feel yourself relax, thoughts fleeing your mind and after a long while you speak again, “I watched her die Julia.” And you know that no amount of talking will ever help you get over it.

“And I watched you die,” her words are hollow but she squeezes your hand.

She knows what its like, the feelings, the grief of it all. But the difference is that for her you came back. Sure you came back wrong, broken and hurting but you’re still alive aren’t you? Her heartache will still be there, you know, for the person you used to be. For the person you’re trying so hard to return to. But you’ll never truly get to hear Themmy’s laugh again, to hear her make another joke or to plot another shenanigan. Your sorrow is a part of you as much as the orange that stains your skin and for that reason you know it will never leave.

You don’t realize you’re starting to drift off until a stray touch to your cheek has your eyes opening when you never knew you had closed them.

“Come on.” Julia’s voice is soothing as she takes your hand and helps you stand, helps you stumble down the hall and through the doorway to her bedroom. You would protest but you’re falling asleep on your feet and her bed is softer anyways. You sit on the edge of the covers as she bends to take your shoes off and you take the opportunity to run your hands through her hair.

“M’ glad you’re deciding to grow it out,” you slur, words heavy in your mouth as she slips one runner off and places it to the side, “Should let me braid it sometime.” Your other foot is free and you wiggle your toes as she chuckles.

“You’d really do that?” she speaks as you remove your hands from her mane, shuffle up further onto the bed and slip under the covers.

“Yeah. I always loved to braid your hair. It’s so soft and smooth.” You smile lazily up at her as you rest your head on a pillow that must be stuffed with clouds for how soft it is. She stands at the bed side and your happiness turns dour as you look into her eyes, framed by grey above and wrinkles in the corners. You distantly wonder if you’ll get old enough to look the same. You reach up and cup her face in your hands, smoothing your thumbs over her dimpled cheeks as she smiles down at your frown, “When did you get so old…” you mumble, a hitch to your voice and she squeezes her hands over yours.

“That’s just life unfortunately.” She smiles with that crooked tilt of her lips you love so much and you pull her down towards your face to trap her in a kiss. A ruse she seems happy to be tricked by if the sigh she lets out is any indication.

She pulls away when your hands fall slack against her face and she places your arm back upon the sheets. She looks worried as she turns to leave the room and through half-lidded eyes you watch her pause in the doorway, look back over her shoulder and flash you a thin smile.

“Te amo cariño. Duermas bien,” she whispers, dimming the lights to a soft glow before she steps out, leaving the door slightly ajar as she disappears from your sight. The call of sleep washes over you like waves lapping against the shore and you can barely keep your eyes open. Until you realize you don’t need to. And you allow yourself to be washed out to sea.

+++++

You awaken slowly, eyes opening to the smell of food wafting in through the cracked door and accompanied by the sound of singing coming from somewhere in the apartment. You yawn as you sit up, stretching your arms above your head before rubbing the last traces of sleep from your eyes as you pull back the covers. You swing your legs out of the bed and onto the carpeted ground and you bend to touch your toes before straightening back up with a sigh and a smile. You feel more rested than you have in a very long time and your shields no longer feel brittle and non-existent. You’ll have to grab the name of those pills.

You pad towards the door opening it slowly and turning the light off as you step out into a brightly lit hallway. The singing continues and you realize there’s no music playing to sing along to as you turn a corner to see Julia standing at the stove. You don’t want to break this moment and so you quietly take a seat and rest your arms upon the benchtop laid with condiments as you watch her cook. Layers of dark waves spill down her back and you remember what you said last night, sighing as you soak up the heaven-like ambience that you seem to have landed yourself in.

“Morning! Pancakes?”

You startle, rattling the stool as she turns around. You didn’t realize she had heard you.

“Uh yeah. Yes please,” you smile and she slides the flat disc onto a plate before placing it down in front of you, “How long did I sleep for?” you ask as you drown the breakfast in thick syrup before cutting a large chunk off and shoving it into your mouth.

“Almost 15 hours,” comes the reply as she turns her back to you and returns to cooking.

“Damn. Well, I needed it.”

“You certainly did,” she chuckles. You wipe the syrup from your chin and turn in your seat, leaning the stool backwards as you peer into the living room to see that the space beneath the coffee table is bare. You grimace.

“I’ll buy you a new rug.”

“Annie you don’t have to!” she laughs as she turns once more with her own cake plated up and comes to next to you.

“C’mon Jules. You’re telling me you wouldn’t love to have something I’ve bought you displayed in your apartment?” you raise a brow.

“You got me,” she snickers as she starts to devour her breakfast. You finish yours quickly, getting to your feet once done and heading to the bathroom, “Where are you going?” Julia asks with faint amusement in her voice.

“Just wait!” you throw the reply over your shoulder as you enter the tiled room, grab a hair tie from where it rests near the edge of the sink (no wonder she keeps losing them), and return to the kitchen. She’s still eating, still watching you as you sit back down and motion for her to turn around.

She does without question after taking the last bite of her food and you reach for her hair, running your fingers through it to rid of any tangles before taking the length between your fingers and separating it into three. You hear her hum in content, sitting as still as she seems to be able to as you fold and twist and ignore the streaks of grey you uncover with your work. It’s nostalgic, reminding you of happier times and you find that the smile comes to your face with ease. Sooner than you’d like you’re finished and you loop the band at the end of the braid to keep your job from unravelling.

“There. Done.” You scoot back and watch as she reaches behind her, running her fingers along the bumps with such care that your heart thuds against your ribcage.

“Thank you.”

“No problem.”

She turns around on her stool and grins at you with shining eyes, “How do I look?”

You’re treated to a vision of her from her younger days. The same eyes and same smile but with skin unblemished, free of scars and wrinkles and missing all the signs of age that (although you’d never admit it) you’ve grown to love.

Your words get caught in your throat.

“Beautiful,” you reply as you smile back, “You look beautiful.”

[frostfairysteve]

I'm having a lot of fun with @thefreakandthehair's Spicy Six Fic Challenge, and while I'm not completely finished yet, I do have something. I'll post the complete thing to AO3 once I'm done.

My prompt is "All these lights, and not a single one is flickering. That's a nice change of pace, huh?" but it does not actually show up in this part. Also, I went for angst with a happy ending, so this part is all angst. Steve-centric, of course.

embraced by the darkness (waiting for the lights) (part 1)

The holiday season had snuck up on all of them. With the gates, and with Max, time had just passed differently. Trying to think back, Steve can only remember volunteering, shifts at Family Video, and making sure everyone around him was okay. He’s had a few calls with his mum, but his parents hadn’t wanted to return to Hawkins considering everything. Not that Steve has celebrated Christmas with them in years; they stopped bringing him with them once he aged out of being his mum’s cute angelic child, aged out of living up to his dad’s expectations. The last time he got close to celebrating Christmas with anyone was when he and Nancy were dating and he spent as much time as possible in her home, but even then he had spent Christmas Day alone.

Knowing that this year would be no different, Steve had been the first to offer to take Lucas’ place in the hospital; allowing him to take a break and celebrate with his family. It was better to be here with Max than be home alone, although there’s not a lot to do other than staring at the walls; white was never a colour he had an opinion on but after spending most of the year in and out of Max’s hospital room, Steve has grown to hate it. The kids' drawings help break up the monotony of the room, and it helps cheer him up to think about them. Even if the paper underneath their drawings remains white.

He has never felt right drawing anything to add to the collection. He loves Max like a little sister, and except for Lucas and El, he has spent the most hours by her bedside, but he’ll always be unsure of his place in other people’s lives.

He thought his parents would always love and care for him, but then they started leaving him alone, they started forgetting about him, and when he no longer had the illusion of a promising future to hide behind, his dad cut him off. The relationship he’s trying to repair with his mum is fragile at best.

And he had thought Nancy loved him but that turned out to be bullshit, and now he still doesn’t know how to be her friend. He doesn’t know how to be Jonathan’s friend either and hasn’t really tried, to be fair. Steve can’t truly look at them without remembering who he was in high school, feels like they’ll always see the asshole that let things happen. He used to be so passive about everything.

He still feels passive sometimes, surrounded by kids so much smarter than him. All he’s good for is being another body between them and the monsters; he knows he can make anything a weapon, knows he can kill a demo-whatever. The problem is when the monster is human and he has to hold back; when he has to be a shield and not a weapon. Some nights, he feels like he has Barb’s blood on his hands. Billy’s too, for what his death did to Max.

During the past months, he has woken up thinking it was Max's or Eddie’s blood. Thinking he could have saved them if he was smarter, faster, better.

He wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he actually were responsible for another person’s death; if he tried to protect and instead caused irrecoverable harm.

With a shaky exhale, he leans back in the hospital chair. It’s not very comfortable, but none of them has ever complained. Trying to find a position that won’t kill his back gives him something to think about, something to focus on that won’t make him spiral. The last thing he needs is to have an anxiety attack next to Max; she would never let him live it down if she knew.

Maybe it would be worth it if it would finally force her awake, if seeing Steve being pathetic was the last push she needed to open her eyes.

He needs to redirect his thoughts somehow. Needs a distraction that won’t push him further towards a spiral. Music is out of the question; none of them has been able to listen to Kate Bush in the same way, and any song now carries the possibility of being life or death for someone. Or maybe Steve is the only one to think that; the others are still happy to fight over control of the radio when he drives them around, and he gets frequent updates on how Corroded Coffin is doing. At least music wasn’t taken from any of them.

There’s something dark about how he feels better when he’s the only one that suffers. Steve would carry all their pain on his shoulders if he only could. Would take all their nightmares and flashbacks and triggers so that they can smile and laugh and continue to be kids. He would take the pain from Robin, and Nancy and Jonathan, and Eddie too. From Joyce and Hopper and Murray and anyone else that has gotten involved.

Steve sometimes thinks he would shoulder the pain of the whole world if it allowed them to be done with the Upside Down. Thinks that it would be worth it if everyone stopped having to grow up so fast.

Thinking about growing up does remind him of the book he brought; the book he always brings. It’s not every time that he reads from it, but it feels like one of those days that need a fairytale to brighten things up. It will give him something to do at least.

The book of fairytales is old, something his mum used to read him to sleep with before his dad argued that he was too old for stories. She let him keep it, a secret between the two of them, a keepsake from when she was a mother and not a distant figure. It’s one of Steve’s few possessions that mean something to him; he can recite each story verbatim if asked, but he prefers having the comforting weight of the book resting in his lap, prefers reading the words from the worn pages.

He flips through the pages to the story of the little mermaid and begins to read, softly enough that only Max can hear him.

Steve wishes that he could find a sea witch now; he, too, would cut off all his hair for his sister to live. Would throw away the dagger too; would turn into seafoam for her. And if not seafoam, a spirit of air.

Maybe Max is a spirit of air, looking down at him now. But that would mean that they’ve lost her—

The heart monitor provides a comforting background noise as he continues to read, doing his best to not stumble over the words that he knows by heart. For now, Max is alive, for now, he can focus on reading for her, for now, he can hope that the fairytale reaches her, wherever she is.

-

He must have dozed off at some point for the next thing he knows a nurse is gently shaking him awake. There’s a paper cup of coffee getting pressed into his hands, although it’s probably much too late for caffeine. Max’s room doesn’t have a clock on their insistence and the dark comes early these days, but he thinks it should be the end of visiting hours if he’s getting woken up. Not that visiting hours always matter; especially the first few months had found them in and out of the hospital at all hours of the day.

“You should head on home, son. There’s snow coming.” the nurse tells him, voice just barely loud enough to be heard with his decreased hearing. Steve thinks he mumbles something coherent in response since they leave after making sure he won’t drop the cup.

The coffee is strong, but the bitter taste helps him come back to consciousness. Sleep comes rarely to him, but it always drags him down deep when it does. He has taken to keeping the nail bat by his bed; needs a weapon close at hand when waking up takes too long. Not like the weeks after something has just happened and any noise has him sitting up, ready for a fight.

If he’s getting less or more sleep now, Steve can’t tell. He gets enough that no one notices, enough for him to function, and that’s enough. It has to be.

Once he’s gotten the coffee down, Steve closes the book that thankfully hadn’t fallen to the floor while he slept, and puts it in his bag before pushing himself up from the chair. Nothing has changed with Max since he last looked at her; the rhythm of the heart monitor is the same. He takes a moment to make sure that she’s tucked in comfortably and that there’s no hair on her face, before saying goodbye with a kiss on her forehead— a last bit of warmth for the road.

-

Sitting in his car outside the hospital, Steve takes a moment to decide where to go. He has been told by Claudia more than once that he’s always welcome to spend time with her and Dustin, no matter the time of day, and Robin has promised to keep a chair free for him if he changed his mind about spending Christmas with her. Even Joyce had sent an invitation through Hopper, and Mrs Sinclair had promised him leftovers if he came by that evening.

Steve doesn’t feel right about intruding on any of them. The one time he tried taking up an invitation, he had sat outside in his car for twenty minutes, stuck in an anxiety spiral, before he drove home. It’s easier for everyone if he just skips the middle step, so there was really only one answer.

He gets home before the snow, but just barely. The first flakes are falling as he hurries from his car to the door, not dressed for the cold. His gloves and scarves have ended up with the others who needed them more; he can make do by zipping his jacket the whole way up and sticking his hands underneath his armpits. And he can surely find another pair of gloves and another scarf if he goes through his parents' things; they have left a lot of clothes behind, and they fit him better every year.

The house is warm in temperature only, and he’s once more thankful that his dad hasn’t thought to pause the bills. His parents' unreliable schedule is good for one thing only; never knowing when they will be home means that the house is always in working order. The downside, of course, is that Steve rarely feels comfortable inviting anyone over; not knowing if his parents will come home or if he’ll have enough time to clean up before they do… He always finds himself getting too worked up to truly relax.

He used to smoke, but then the Russians… it’s not the same kind of drug, but Steve can't stand not being in control of himself. Alcohol is out of the question for the same reason, and partly because he remembers when Nancy got drunk and has felt uncomfortable around intoxicated people ever since, always wondering if they’re going to blow up at him.

Steve wants to be of help, finds a purpose in being useful, in being able to love and be loved in return. To have all that thrown back at him, having it called bullshit… Nancy Wheeler has changed him in many ways, only a handful of them good.

When he shivers, it’s more due to his thoughts than the temperature. Still, he keeps his jacket on even after he has put away his bag and taken off his shoes. Exhaustion has come over him like a heavy blanket now that he’s home, and Steve wants nothing more than to go to bed. He does take a moment to look towards the kitchen, to try to remember when he last ate something, but he doesn’t think he would be able to keep anything down. The anxiety that he had felt in the hospital is worming its way through his veins now, and he wants to be in the safety of his bedroom before it overcomes him.

It doesn’t take long to get there, taking the stairs two steps at a time. He has long since learned how to find his way around the house in the dark, how to do so quietly, and fast. His room is the furthest to the left; turn left once up the stairs, and then to the left again. With his parents' room being the furthest to the right on the first floor, he doesn’t have to be all that quiet, but Steve has always been more anxious than anyone would think.

He would lock the door behind him, but there isn’t one. He can only hope that he remembered to lock the front door; not that a locked door can stop the monsters. Steve glances towards the wall at the thought and immediately glances away; he’s not bleeding; the gates aren’t completely closed even after all these months but they’re too small in size for anything to come through; he’s safe, and he has his bat.

He knows he’s safe, so why is he unable to breathe?

His jacket feels constricting and he cannot get it off soon enough. His throat aches and Steve moves to get out of his sweater as soon as the jacket has fallen to the floor. He needs to breathe, he needs to get everything off, he needs to, needs to, needs to—

Warm tears are making their way down his cheeks as Steve collapses to his knees. The nail bat is too far away, but he doesn’t know what he would use it for. It doesn’t stop him from crawling towards it, wanting the comfort of the wood in his hand. He has years of practice in how to hug it close without hurting himself on the nails.

If he could only breathe properly, he would be singing. There is one song that still brings him comfort, but only when his mind is playing tricks on him. It’s the song, the one that would save him from Vecna. But Steve is almost hyperventilating when he finally gets his hands on the bat; singing would only make things worse. He could force himself if he heard a clock, but much like the hospital room, all clocks are removed from the house.

Even after months of not seeing his parents, it took until he almost collapsed from a lack of sleep and anxiety before Steve removed them. He still doesn’t know how to explain if his parents come home.

Especially not their prized grandfather clock. It’s safely put away in their bedroom, the pendulum having been removed to stop the chiming. He didn’t dare put it in the garage; couldn’t pack it away in a box like he did all the other clocks.

Thinking about clocks - thinking about his parents - does nothing to help his breathing. Steve is fully hyperventilating, the bat hugged close like it’s a stuffed bear. The tears falling down his cheeks feel endless, and snot has started to run down his nose. His lips are salty when he licks them.

If he were a braver man, Steve would call someone. But everything inside him screams at the concept of willingly showing weakness, especially months after everything happened. He hasn’t had to reassure Robin or Dustin or Lucas over the phone since before the school year started.

He spent the anniversary of the mall burning - of the Russians - with Robin, but after that… everyone else just seemed okay.

Steve could barely get out of bed for all of November; couldn’t do anything at all for Thanksgiving.

The tears come harder at that; at the thought that he’s the only one still suffering. His scars give phantom pain as he curls his torso inwards; trying to make himself small while still hugging the bat close. His whole body shakes with his sobs now, they almost get stuck in his throat as he struggles to get any air.

Steve is back with the vines, is back with the bats, is back with the Russians and the demodogs and the demogorgon in Byers house.

And then the doorbell rings, and he’s in his bedroom, is half-naked on the floor with nails dangerously close to digging into his stomach.

The doorbell rings again and the sound echoing through the house shocks him so badly that he chokes on a sob, almost coughing his lungs out as he tries to get himself in control. Whoever is waiting at the door can’t see him like this; can’t see him as anything else but the fighter, the protector, the shield.

He’s tempted to hide in his room until they leave, but he would never; what if it’s the kids, what if something has happened, what if they need him— Steve’s mind is racing with scenarios - each worse than the one before - as he scrambles to get himself together. The bat gets dropped to the floor, and scratches his stomach in his haste, but he can’t feel it as he covers it up with the sweater. He knows he got the sweater on backwards, but that doesn’t matter if something is wrong.

Steve is trying to scrub his face of all traces of tears as he jogs down the stairs, the doorbell ringing a third and then a fourth time in the background. He knows he doesn’t succeed, knows that his eyes must be puffy and red, knows that there’s snot on his sleeves now, and that his hair is in disarray from where he must have been pulling on it in a useless attempt to ground himself. He knows that he must look like a mess and that he has no explanation that he’s willing to give, but hopefully whoever’s at the door has more important things to worry about than him. Most things are more important than him.

His hands are shaking as he tries to get the front door open; he unlocks it and then locks it again, not able to remember which direction is which as his thoughts fly in hundred directions at once. He’s out of breath when he finally gets it open - from the panic attack that he can still feel, from trying to get presentable and down the stairs as fast as possible - but he plasters a shaky smile on his lips in hope of covering it up.

The smile gets slightly more real but no less shaky when the door has opened enough to reveal Gareth and Eddie, the latter looking ready to press the doorbell a fifth time.

[nerves-nebula]

what made your first year of college so much worse than the second?

godddd where do i even start. Complaining goes under the cut cuz it’s too damn long.

8 hour studios 3 times a week that start at 8 AM and only break for lunch. one of the professors expected us to stand the entire time we were drawing and only sit when we went on break. plus homework for those studios, because each studio was a different foundational class. and on the days when you dont have those studios you got other foundational classes like art history and literature or something. you've got homework for all of these classes too and tests and everything.

and each studio being a different class is a huge issue and really frustrating as well. the classes are drawing, design and, like, basically a 3D class, right? where you use power tools and carve stuff and all that. But imagine you go to this school for painting or to make clothes, then the three foundational classes might just really bore and frustrate you. because you don't really feel like they're helping you gain any skills in your preferred major.

so you have all these artistic kids who want to do their best, being forced to do things they hate and being told it's to make us "more well rounded." (which dont get me wrong i understand, but that doesnt make it suck any less)

so all the art you make is painful to create, and you don't even like the result. but we knew what we signed up for, and the point is to last past first year so you can get into your major. thats the point for me, at least. so you just get what you can done, but i cant imagine what I would've done if i'd fallen behind even once.

And then my own personal hell- being in a new place and not knowing what to do or who to talk to or how to communicate ! So i was constantly stressed out in like a social way. idk if i vented about this here but i fell over in a fit of anxiety and hyperventilation in class multiple times first year. I straight up fell over at least twice and i had crying fits multiple times (with varying degrees of how quiet I was being, sometimes they don't even notice :D)

I was incredibly emotionally isolated and cried myself to sleep like every night. my only social interactions were at work because I'm very bad at socializing properly and making friends in class, and i was always too tired to go to any events. LUCKY for me I met a really cool friend while doing some student work and it was really nice and chill.

ANYWAY BACK TO THE STRESS. to give an example of the situation: our first homework for drawing class was to make this big ink master copy of a van gogh sketch, and it didn't have to be perfect, or even GOOD tbh, but regardless it took forever. and i spilled my ink on it which nearly led to a breakdown but instead i just laughed cause otherwise I'd go insane. the amount of podcasts and audiobooks i burned through that year just to keep myself sane was mind-numbing. i listened to, no joke, ALL of Well There's Your Problem, and i went back and listened to a lot of them more than once.

i was really lucky though, cause some other students had first projects that were like "bring in 50 drawings by next class" or "make a chair out of only cardboard that you can sit on without it collapsing" or something. and i never had a teacher that bad.

actually, my second semester design professor was really REALLY chill. He let me sleep in class if i finished the work so I spent a few hours in his class just chilling and sleeping fitfully (as in I was so stressed i would gasp and mutter myself awake, which really alarmed my classmates but i never got close enough to them to explain myself soooo they prolly just think something is wrong with me. which it is! oh well)

i can only speak for myself but i was basically working any moment i wasn't sleeping, eating, shitting, or showering. somehow other people made time to befriend each other and hang out and like, go to parties??? i dont know how. Frankly I don't even remember how i did what i did either, specifically I reached out to my college's mental health services and got on some medication for anxiety. I also somehow managed to write an essay for our student published thingy about how I wanted to kms and felt unsupported by mental health professionals lmao.

I have NO IDEA how i did any of that because this year i kept falling asleep for five hours in the middle of the day. my theory is that I got more done because I physically HAD TO STAY AWAKE. I COULD NOT ALLOW MYSELF TO FAIL.

I was so stressed out the first year that I often couldn't sleep without hugging my giant elephant stuffed animal or using it as a comforting weight on top of me. one morning i woke up hyperventilating and went to go cut a huge role of paper at like 6 AM because i was so worried about forgetting to cut the paper before i left before class at 8 AM.

so yeah, my theory is that since second year wasn't that insanely stressful, all those hours i spent eking out any artistic joy possible (making owl house comics, writing that essay, and painting my clothing) just to make sure i didn't kms were replaced instead with me just falling asleep at inopportune times, because I wasn't as scared that I wouldn't have time for my work.

OH MY GOD AND FIRST YEAR I GOT PUT IN TWO CONSECUTIVE GROUP PROJECTS WITH THIS ABSOLUTE MONSTER- but that could be its entire own post. suffice it to say that he had been reported multiple times for various things and one of my classmates recognized who i was talking about just from me vaguely complaining about how much i hated him.

anyway im sure there's even more that i forgot about but to be honest i think i've explained enough.

[boliv-jenta]

Better part 1

Part 2 | Masterlist

Marcus Pike x f!reader.

Smut from the get go. Fluff. Angst. Pregnancy.

Marcus gave you his cock as a maddening pace. Slow, steady, sure. A quick thrust in, aided by your wetness and his precome. Then a long drag out. The warm, bare skin of his length grazing the velvet softeness of your walls had you both panting into each other's mouths. When he was fully sheathed inside, his body flush to yours, his breath combining with yours, his moans and the sound of his skin slapping against yours, you felt comletely connected. Whole. The sex was as close to perfection as you had even dreamed. Except it was all so wrong. The thoughts pushed through the haze of alcohol and sex. Too soon. Risking too much. He should be wearing a condom.

Chasing the thoughts away, you kissed him deeply. It sparked something in Marcus, his hips picked up speed. His thrusts were harder, deeper. Long fingers met your clit, drawing you closer to orgasm. A well placed thrust had you tumbling into a climax. The tension in your body all snapped back to where you were joined, gripping Marcus's cock, milking every drop of his seed from him. It was so much you could feel it washing over his softening length, trying to escape you. It was still warm at the top of your thighs when Marcus pulled on his jeans and grabbed the rest of his clothes. With a rueful smile, he left your bedroom and your apartment.

Neither of you spoke about that night again until the digital readout on your test said '2-3 weeks pregnant'.

#########

Birthday parties at the office were a standard affair. Everyone knew they would get one but had to go through the charade of being 'surprised'. Walking into the break room after Marcus you did your best mock shocked face at the set up. Balloons and banners decorated the walls. Trays of food were dotted around the tables. Soft drinks were on the counter along with a cake, a rich looking chocolate one inscribed with Happy Birthday in purple icing. Thankfully, it didn't say your age. That was something that was weighing on you at the moment. Truth be told, a birthday party was the last thing you wanted right now. For the next couple of hours you managed to keep your face schooled. Laughing and joking with your co-workers. It was only ever perceptive Marcus that noticed you were off. He was good enough not to call you on it until you were leaving. His long legs made short work of the distance as he jogged up behind you. He caught you just as you reached your car. "Hey."

"Hey, everything OK?" You wondered why he followed you out here. His car was on the other side of the building.

"I was just about to ask you the same thing."

"Everything's fine. Why do you ask?"

"Because I've known you for twenty years. I know when something's up."

"Great detective skills. You should be a cop of some kind."

Your name accompanied his puppy dog head tilt as he touched your hand, now resting on your car door. His eyes full of sympathy and patience. He knew you well enough to know how to break you.

"I'm just feeling my age. There's a few things I wanted to do by now that I haven't."

"Like what?" His thumb stroked the back of your hand. Soothing you, urging you to continue. He knew you so well. There was a temptation to open up to him completely there and then. Tell him everything you wanted. It was too great a risk for you to take so you withdrew your hand. "Another time Marcus."

He respected that, let you get in your car with nothing more than a final wish of happy birthday.

The drive home felt lonely after being surrounded with people. You should have just got an early night. You should have just switched off your brain with some comfort TV. Instead, you tortured yourself by pulling all your paper work out. The report for the doctor. The price lists. The list of donors you had spent another couple of hours pouring over. Speaking of pouring a glass of wine couldn't hurt right now. A beep from your phone caught you attention. Your aunt, the time difference meant it was dinner time for her, late for you. After answering her, another message popped up. It was Marcus. "You're still up. Do you need to talk?"

Your fingers moved of their own accord as they typed out "Yes."

"Be over in ten?"

"Thank you."

In the ten minutes, you gathered all your paperwork and shoved it in the coffee table draw. After he buzzed up you moved to open the door for him. Fourth glass of wine in hand. Marcus stood in the hallway, hair slightly damp, dripping onto his leather jacket, you had no idea when the rain had started. In his hand he held a brown paper bag. Stepping back you let him in. The scent of his shampoo, stirred up by the rain and his familiar leather jacket, wrapped around you as he passed.

"I figured you could use this." He pulled out a bottle of wine. He pulled out a second, almost empty bottle. "I needed this."

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Hey, that's my line."

Something about the ease of the banter between you, that familiar back and forth, broke you. Tears burst from you.

"Hey, hey, hey." Marcus's arms were around you in seconds. Drawing you close to his strong, board chest. His lips pressed kisses to the top of your head. "It's okay Sweetheart. Let it out." For a moment you followed his words. Your tears chased the rain drops down the front of his jacket. Once the worst was over, you pulled away to look at him. "I'm sorry."

"Hey, none of that. That's what best friends are for. I've cried on your shoulder enough." That was true. You had been there for him a lot over the years. "You want to tell me what all this is about?"

Not trusting your voice, you grabbed a pamphlet from the coffee table draw, handing it to him. His eyebrows shot up as he read the title. "Artificial Insemination." He dropped down onto the sofa. Like a magnet, you followed. "You want a baby? You want a baby like this?"

The way he said this got your back up. "No, Marcus. I don't want a baby like this but I don't have another option." He winced, realising how he sounded, his mouth opened to fix it but you cut him off. "I know it's selfish but I want to carry a child so adoption is plan B. More like plan C actually. This is plan B. Plan A, to get married and do things the old fashion way is right out the window."

"Why?"

"I'm 38. I have no romantic prospects. Time is ticking away."

A look crossed his face that you couldn't place. A tension rose between you. It was a solid as a cliff face with you teetering on the edge of it. His tongue darted out between his lips as if he was about to speak. His eyes shifted back to the paper in his hand, cracked the cliff and had you falling, flailing out for a conversation foothold. He spoke instead. "So how does this work?"

Good, Practical Marcus. That's who you needed right now. Edging closed you opened the pamphlet to show him. The warmth of him pressed to your side soothed your nerves. "...I've had all the test. I just need to pick a donor and set a budget for myself." You concluded.

"A budget?" He blinked.

"Yeah. It isn't cheap. The sperm alone is $700-$1000 a vial. Insurance won't cover it all. I have decide how much am willing to spend before I give up if it doesn't work." Feeling more in control now you were talking about something practical, you relaxed back and took a sip of your fifth glass of wine. A sip you prompted choked on as Marcus said "How much would you save if I gave you the sperm?"

When you could breath again, he continued. "Sorry. I just thought...well...I have some spare. You need it."

"Yeah. I suppose."

He took another healthy glug from his glass. "It'd be kinda cool to see what a kid with my DNA would be like too."

Your heart clenched. You knew Marcus had always wanted kids. He would make a fantastic father. You weren't a fool, you knew raising a child alone was going to be hard. Marcus had helped you in every other aspect of you life. College assignments, moving home, break ups, work. It stood to reason he would help you with your baby. You were practically inseparable anyway. If he was the father he could be as involved as he liked. You would have peace of mind of knowing the donor's full history. Your child could know their father.

"Yes." You finally uttered startling Marcus.

"Yes, like you want my sperm?"

"Do you have to put it like that?"

A boyish grin set on his lips.

"Yes, I would like you to help me make a baby. We can call the clinic tomorrow. They'll talk you through it all. I don't want you rushing into anything."

"Talk me through it? It's not as simple as a date with a cup?" He teased.

"More the emotional side of it. Creating a life is kind of a big deal."

"I know but people do it all the time with people they know a lot less than I know you and it works for them. This way, if you want, I could be there for you. Help you out. Be a dad when you need me to. We make a good team." His words felt bittersweet. He thought of you as a team, a good one but still. He lifted his glass in a toast. Clinking yours to his you settled in to your regular, cosy routine. Drinking the rest of the wine, you decide to watch TV. Demolition Man had just started. A favourite of both yours and Marcus's. It was just like old times until the sex scene. As Sandra Bullock ranted about the exchange of bodily fluids, Marcus turned his head to look at you. His cheeks were slightly red from the alcohol, his hair had dropped over his forehead from the rain early, his top shirt buttons were undone, he looked pleasantly dishevelled. "What?" You smiled at him.

"I was just thinking. What if we made a baby the old fashion way?"

Your cheeks burned from more than alcohol. It wasn't like you hadn't slept together before. There was a mind blowing night in college, he was the first man to ever make you come with tongue. The first to care about your pleasure and give you multiple orgasms. If you were honest, no-one lived up to him since.

A drunken night after both of your marriages had fallen apart within months of each other, had been just as good. No one had ever taken you with such passion. It was as if he took all the stress and frustration he felt out on your body. Transferring the tension in you until it coiled, morphed, until it became something new, pleasurable.

Since he didn't get a answer straight away he clarified. "I was just thinking it would save money. It would be a lot nicer beginning to a pregnancy too."

He wasn't wrong there. The thought of you and Marcus making a baby together was a lot, you weren't sure you could take it. A one nighter every decade, you could push down into the recesses of your mind. Chose to forget how his skin felt on yours. How your name sounded rolling off his tongue at the height of his climax. How it felt like the last piece of your relationship has fallen into place. What you didn't want to think about was how much you loved Marcus. In every sense. You love him. You were in love with him. He was everything to you. Absence had just made the heart grow fonder. Now that he was back, with another failed relationship under his belt to boot, all the little moments that you could usually push away were magnified. The times when he would laugh causing his eyes to crinkle. You longed to hold him, to feel the laughter rumble out of his chest. When the sun filtered through his hair, you longed to run your fingers through it. When his shoulders were tight with tension, you longed to rub the stress away. The only thing stopping you was the thought of losing him. Relationships were complicated, messy. If things went wrong, you'd lose him forever. No, better to have him like this. You can compartmentalise. Keep those longings locked up. If you were having sex on a regular basis though, it would be so much harder.

With this is mind you chose your words carefully. "We could give it a try, leave it up to the fates and if it doesn't work, we go the clinic next month."

Marcus held out his hand for you to shake. "Deal."

Using the hand he held gently, he pulled you in for a kiss. It was slow and gentle. Seductive even.

"Wait, one more thing. When it's done, once we've, well once you've...er..."

"Donated?"

"Yeah, I guess. I want you to leave. I think it'd be a little weird if you stayed."

Marcus accepted your terms with a soft smile. "Sure."

True to his word, as always, he left right after. When the door to your apartment clicked shut, you curled into a ball were you lay before crying yourself to sleep.

######

Marcus was at your door less than an hour after you called in sick to work. "Is everything OK? You didn't tell me you were sick. Do you need anything?"

"I'm not sick Marcus. I just needed a day."

"Oh? Are you alright?"

"I did three pregnancy tests. They were all positive."

The smile on Marcus's face was beautiful, one of pure joy.

"You're pregnant?! Just from that one time?!"

"It only takes one little swimmer to get through."

"I know but it's still crazy to think just from that one time."

"I suppose it is."

"What do we do now?" The 'we' twisted a knife in your heart.

"I've made an appointment with my doctor to get checked out."

"Do you want me to go with you?"

"No, it's fine. It's just a general check up."

As much as you wanted to put some distance between you and Marcus, the way his face fell for a moment was too much for you to bare. "You can come to the scans and stuff, of course."

His smile returned full force.

All was well for the next couple of weeks, until the morning sickness hit. Well, morning, noon and night sickness. Everything made you feel like throwing up. The only things you could stomach were buttered toast, plain noodles and cinnamon buns from your favourite bakery. Despite your best efforts to hide all this from Marcus, he was there when a particularly nasty bout hit you. Running to the bathroom you barely closed the door behind you before dropping to your knees to hug the toilet bowl.

A soft knock on the door followed. "Honey? Do you need anything?"

"No. I'm fine." The tears evident in your voice.

"You don't sound fine. I'm coming in."

He pushed the door slowly giving you time to stop him. "Oh, sweetheart."

He took you in, eyes wet from crying or exertion, skin flushed, your mouth downturned in a small frown. He dropped to his knees beside you, pulling you into a tight hug. The comfort he brought only lasted for a moment until the urge to throw up rose again. Marcus softly rubbed your back as you did.

"Is there anything I can get you?" He brushed the hair back for your face as he asked.

The action was so tender it took a moment for your brain to process. "I need you to leave." You hadn't meant to put it like that but to be fair that was probably the best thing for you. Morning sickness plus keeping your feelings in check was exhausting. "Your aftershave. That's what's making me sick."

"Sorry." He jumped up. Stripping off his shirt he threw it into the tub before washing himself in the sink. Drops of water ran down his broad chest, carved a path to his belt. Heat bloomed between your legs, another new side effect of your current condition apparently. Your sex drive was going crazy.

"Am just gonna grab a hoodie." As he left to got to your room you wracked your brains to remember if you had put your vibrator away properly after you cleaned in this morning. If you hadn't he didn't mention it when he returned.

"Better?" He asked stretching out his long neck for you to sniff.

"Better." You gave a small nod. Cuddling into him you realised that nothing was better at all.

Tags @kirsteng42 @babydarkstar @prolix-yuy @thegreenkid @hquinzelle @fangirl-316 @gracie7209 @jedifarmerr @doommommy @scorpio-marionette @sturkillerbase

[cocrante]

I Start Over With You

[SOLANGELO FANFIC]

summary: After the great battle against the forces of Gaea, Camp Half-Blood and Camp Jupiter had formed a long-lasting alliance. Everything had gone well, and everyone was ready to start anew. This included Nico, who, after confessing his feelings to Percy, was prepared to open a new chapter in his life—perhaps the happiest one the Fates had ever written.

note: the chapters will be updated every Wednesday. If you want to read upcoming chapters of the fanfiction in advance, I invite you to follow me on Patreon. Subscribing is not necessary, these chapters will be added for free on the platform on Mondays and Fridays. Following me there is just a kind and free gesture to support my work c:

nda. I remember when this chapter was published, years ago, the opening lines sparked a lot of discussion. I studied piano for five years, but it's been a long time since I played. I can only read music now. The opening lines were particularly debated because, in string instruments, B-flat and G-sharp are, in fact, the same note. However, in singing, for example, there are different variations of notes, and not all are perceptible (in this case, we are talking about a 1/9 variation), and only an absolute ear can recognize the difference. I liked the idea of Will being able to grasp the different nuances of pitch in notes, especially because this character tends to underestimate his abilities.

Reblogs are highly appreciated c:

[CHAPTER 5]

THE LAST THING WILL EXPECTED, WAS TO HEAR NICO SING. He never thought he would accept his challenge and start singing, and he wasn't even off-key. Of course, there were always those little imperfections like hitting a B-flat instead of a G-sharp, but they were nuances that only someone with perfect pitch would be able to catch. Will was enchanted.

After the song, which Nico deemed embarrassing, the boys in the circle were dismissed to return to their respective cabins. Finally, the son of Hades was free to rest and mentally prepare for the next day. It would be his first ro wing lesson at camp, and he wasn't exactly sure what he would have to do. He would rely entirely on Will's teachings, hoping he could explain how to row as well as he could heal. "See you tomorrow" Nico said, ready to head toward his cabin. "See you tomorrow!" Will replied enthusiastically. "Sweet dreams" he added, unable to contain his radiant smile. "Yes. You too" he replied, leaving behind the now extinguished campfire and with Will watching him disappear into the darkness.

He made his way up the camp in silence, heading straight to cabin number 13, where a warm and soft bed awaited him. Opening the door, he immediately made his way to the mattress and collapsed soothed by the sweet sounds of the night, he fell asleep. It was a dreamless sleep, which was a rare occurrence for a demigod. He woke up a few hours after the first light of dawn, disturbed by a pesky sunbeam kissing his face. The boy grumbled in his sleep a couple of times, muttering for someone to draw the curtains and let him sleep for five more minutes, but since his request went unanswered and the one sunbeam became two, Nico decided it was time to get up. He stretched and yawned a couple of times, first rubbing his face to wipe off the last traces of sleep and then running his hand through his hair to tidy it up a bit. He spent about twenty minutes in the bathroom, mostly trying to fix himself up and get rid of that undead look— unfortunately it seemed to be hereditary to always look like a zombie. He sighed, changed his clothes, and slipped on his shoes before heading out to have a substantial breakfast, convinced that Will would tire him out.

At the dining hall, there were still a few demigods, some had finished their meal while others were still waking up. Nico grabbed something to eat and went to sit at his usual table, intending to take his time to fully wake up. Occasionally, he glanced over at the table occupied by the children of Apollo, but Will wasn't there. He thought that Will must have already gone down to the lake and was waiting for him, as he thought it impossible that he was still sleeping in bed. Slowly, more and more people began to fill up the dining hall, taking seats at their own tables or joining others, and just as more people started to arrive, Nico finished his food. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and headed down to the lake where an impatient Will was waiting for him. "Good morning sunshine!" Will exclaimed as he saw a gloomy-looking Nico approaching. "Good morning, Solace" Nico replied simply, noticing that Will had already pushed a two-person boat into the water. "I thought someone else was coming" he confessed, knowing that usually a substantial group was needed for rowing. "Ah, no" said Will, running a hand through his hair. "I thought it would be more productive with just the two of us" he explained. "Okay" sighed Nico, feeling nervous enough being on a boat in the middle of the water. Will quickly explained the procedure for rowing, which involved leveraging certain parts of the body in a harmonized way with each other. Will was confident they wouldn't capsize. "All clear?" he asked, sure that he had explained everything. "Yes" confirmed Nico, already impatient to get back on solid ground. "Great! Let's go" exclaimed Will, walking down the wooden pier with Nico following him at a slow pace, thinking back to years ago when after the war against the Titans, the campers, caught up in a burst of euphoria, pushed Percy and Annabeth into the lake. He shook his head, dispelling the unpleasant memory. Nico took a couple of deep breaths, thinking to himself "what was I thinking?" then climbed down the ladder and got into the boat, taking the second seat so that he could follow Will's arm movements. "Ready?" the enthusiastic boy asked, already untying the knot that held the boat to the dock. "Ready" Nico tried to sound enthusiastic, but his voice betrayed him.

Will did most of the work, and Nico tried to keep up, pushing the oar with all the strength he had in his body. "Use your legs" Will repeated from the front, occasionally suppressing a laugh. As they reached the center of the lake, Nico slowly became more familiar with rowing. Will was right in saying that it was all about synchronization. "You know, I didn't expect this" Will suddenly said, catching Nico's attention, who was already focused on not tipping over. "What?" he asked with a scoff. "That you can sing" Will smiled. "Really, you have a nice voice" he concluded, turning halfway to look at him. "Ah—" Nico simply said, not expecting such a statement. "You sing well too" he tried to compliment him in return, feeling his cheeks flush. He wasn't used to giving compliments, he was a disaster with words and he didn't even know if that could define him as such since it was a fact that Will could sing. "Yeah, I can handle singing" he replied with feigned modesty. "But there are better ones" he lowered his shoulders with a sigh, thinking of his other siblings who were much better at hitting the highs and lows of a song. Nico pursed his lips, he hated when Will downplayed himself. He had many other abilities and was as good as the other members of his house, he just convinced himself otherwise. "Maybe" Nico muttered. "But I didn't mind hearing you sing" he said, not finding anything else to say to make him understand that he really liked the way he sang. "Was that a compliment, di Angelo?" Will asked ironically, truly surprised by what he had just heard. "No" Nico's ears turned red. "To me it sounds like it was" Will teased. "Think what you want" he huffed, and in the next second, he pulled his lips into a gentle smile. Will couldn't help but laugh at that answer, he appreciated Nico's effort, aware that it wasn't easy for him to open up to people and he found it difficult to express in words what was on his mind. "Thanks" he said after finishing laughing, turning his face to look at him, and Nico simply nodded. "Would you like to come to the infirmary later?" Will asked him after a few minutes of silence. "I'm meeting Jason after this" he told him. "Ah, okay" he tried not to show any disappointment in his voice, but he wasn't sure if he succeeded. Nico, although he would have enjoyed spending a whole day with him, knew well that he couldn't stand up Jason again, but he still hoped to finish the training at the arena soon. "But I could still come after training" suggested the son of Hades, who wanted to spend some more time with Will.

The boy in front of the canoe nodded, thrilled that he would be joining him later in the afternoon.

[CONTENTS]

1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5 • 6 • 7 • 8 • 9 • 10 • 11 • 12 • 13 • 14 • 15 • 16 • 17 • 18 • 19 • 20

[ikesenhell]

A Sun Long Gone, Chapter Five

You can find all masterlists at the top of my page (AO3, Genshin Impact, Ikemen Sengoku, and Ikemen Vampire). NOTES: This work is 18+. Highly suggestive content (naked person, no explicit sex, just vague making out). A fade to black lmao. Uhhh unwarranted angst, arriving on heelies to sucker punch you?

I SWEAR YALL ARE GETTING YOUR NSFW CHAPTER AFTER THIS ONE. DON'T WORRY.

---

The next few nights brought a change in routine for Dainsleif. It had been too long since any of the Khaenri’ahn guard were properly trained; being so far away from their usual grounds had ensured that. While every morning was spent running the usual drills, Lord Alberich suddenly took a keen interest in observing additional sparring three nights in a row. 

Out loud, Dainsleif said nothing. This was his job. He was used to having abrupt changes in schedule; adding new meetings about the latest military technology, new tactics, intelligence reports at odd hours. It wouldn’t even be the first time a higher up had decided on an inspection.

But Dainsleif understood what was actually happening. Lord Alberich was clearly uncomfortable with Rukkhadevata’s proximity. That much made sense. After all, Dainsleif had once believed she had an ulterior motive for taking an interest in him (Khaenri’ah’s secrets were widely and expensively sought). So, yes , Dainsleif didn’t question why his nights were no longer free. 

(Admittedly, he was still very annoyed.)

The Eremites and Forest Rangers supplied training grounds. Rukkhadevata also stopped by on the second night, inquiring if they needed any other supplies (they didn’t). Dainsleif tried not to draw any more attention to the two of them. He kept his eyes straight ahead, inspecting the sparring soldiers. He could feel Lord Alberich’s gaze burning into the back of his skull the whole time. 

Every night when he went to bed, Dainsleif would try and resign himself to sleep. He didn’t dream much in Sumeru. No. Instead, he would envision the last time he got to kiss Rukkhadevata. Damn Alberich. Damn responsibilities. The sweet aroma of oud and Jasmine was all but faded from his memory and mouth. Would he ever get another opportunity?

The day after the third night of this, Rukkhadevata rose from a meeting in the Akademiya and stretched. Her hair was hung with tiny gold threads and peppered with embroidered Sumeru roses. Yes, Dainsleif was used to his job. Yes, he was accustomed to the abrupt change in shifts. He’d still laid eyes on her this morning (in all her pretty, sun-kissed glory) and wanted to smack Lord Alberich up the head for keeping him from her. 

“Lord Alberich?” She said.

“Rukkhadevata,” the man replied. It was lunchtime. His face showed it. Today’s meeting was especially irritating in the details. 

“I presume you’ll be dining with the sages again? I don’t suppose you’re willing to lend me your Twilight Sword, would you? I had plans to meet with Forest Ranger Takama and I may need an extra pair of hands should she pass along some medicinal herbs for your men.”

What was this about? He hadn’t requested any such thing. True, his men always needed things for various scrapes and ailments, but he’d never passed along a request for it. Dainsleif watched the other man’s mouth twitch. Lord Alberich seemed to think the same thing. 

“I could lend you another soldier.”

That was bait. Rukkhadevata didn’t take it. She just smiled, tucking a pen behind her ear. “I’m happy to accept whoever you send me. I just need someone who has a full understanding of all the needs you might have at this time.”

That could only be him. No one else knew or anticipated his soldier’s needs. Clearly Lord Alberich realized this. He cast a leery gaze at Dainsleif. 

“Would you be free, Sir Dainsleif?” 

Dainsleif pretended to pause, replying, “I would be able to answer any questions the forest rangers might have.”

“Then go. Obviously, attend to Lord Rukkhadevata as you would me.”

Dainsleif ground down the urge to reply, ‘ I promise I attend to you two much differently’ . Instead, he opted to nod, provide a salute, rise, and follow Rukkhadevata out into the hallway. 

It was an extra busy day in the Akademiya. Scholars and scribes raced in and out of the Grand Sage’s office, armloads of books and parcels clutched in tired fists. The sun was bright and warm. Dainsleif realized he was getting more used to it with every passing day. They wound down the wide avenues and–once well caught up to her and far enough from the doors–he brushed his mouth against her ear. 

“You made that up,” he whispered. 

Rukkhadevata cast her green eyes back at him, a smile glittering there. “Oh?”

“None of us asked for medical supplies. If you wanted to provide them, you could’ve sent one of your doctors from the Bimarstaan.”

She turned her head back toward the road. Even from the side, he could see the curve of a mischievous smirk. “And?”

“You knew Lord Alberich was suddenly keeping me well in his sight and would also know the same.”

The rich scent of spices caught on the wind. Children dashed past them, laughing and tossing a ball. As natural as the sky, she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, using the lurch in street traffic to cover for it. “Are you aware you’re being monitored at night?”

“I assumed as much. I didn’t know you were also monitoring us.”

“Not exactly. The Eremites handle any security concerns. That isn’t relayed to me, but to the Akademiya, and your being monitored wouldn’t make their list.”

“Then who told you?”

“The Aranara.”

He’d grown used to much of Sumeru at this point. Dainsleif hesitated at this word. “The what now?”

Rukkhadevata paused for a moment. “They’re a small creature; very childlike. They like to chatter about all sorts of things they see.” “I have follow up questions.”

“Ask them.”

“Have I met one?”

“No. Children tend to be the only ones that do.”

A thousand other questions cropped up. Dainsleif shunted them to the side. Teyvat was a wild and wonderful place indeed. “Alright. Why did they feel this was of note to you?”

Once more, she paused. This time she blushed. “I might’ve mentioned you to them at one point. Apparently, one of them took it upon themselves to try and make sure you were safe. He felt the need to tell me you were being watched.”

Despite himself, Dainsleif laughed. She blinked. “Nothing,” he chuckled. “I’m reminded of fairytales we have in Khaenri’ah. They’re about princesses who talk to animal helpers.”

How had he gone three days without that smile? She tucked her pretty hooked nose into her hair, embarrassed, and he wanted to fist fight Lord Alberich in the Grand Bazaar. “Anyway, obviously this is my fault, and for that, I’m sorry. We haven’t exactly been subtle.”

“No. That much is true. I take it you have some kind of a plan to take the heat off?”

“Yes. Have you ever seen a magic show?”

What a bizarre conversation this was. Admittedly, he couldn’t pretend that he didn’t enjoy it. Someone dropped a goblet of tea in the street beside them; before the glass shattered, he grabbed her by the waist and pivoted, liquid spattering his cape. Rukkhadevata blinked owlishly up at him from his chest. 

“Watch yourself.” Dainsleif checked over her hair and shawl. No stains. Good. 

“My hero,” she giggled. 

Now it was his turn to be embarrassed. Clearing his throat, he said, “It has been a long, long time since I last saw a magic show. Why do you ask?”

“You’re familiar with the premise, though? No actual magic takes place, nor any elemental reactions. It’s all sleight of hand. So long as the magician can successfully redirect your attention where they want it, they are at liberty to establish any illusion they like.”

People behind him were still in an uproar. Someone–the person who'd dropped the tea, Dainsleif guessed–tapped his shoulder and said something in a dialect he didn't recognize. 

"He says he's terribly sorry," Rukkhadevata explained. "He's also offering you some free tea to make up for his mistake."

"Things happen." Unclipping his cape, Dainsleif shook some liquid free. "It’s waterproof anyway. I don't need any tea."

Chuckling, she replied, "He's going to insist. That's Sumeru."

Sure enough, the vendor was already busying himself with two copper mugs. A tea kettle on a large stick went into a barrel filled with sand heated over a fire; as the vendor pushed the kettle in circles, the liquid bubbled to the surface. Dainsleif barely had a moment before they were shooed along with their new drinks. Back to the topic at hand. Draping his cloak over an arm, Dainsleif said, "Yes, I'm familiar with how magic shows work. I presume that's your strategy here, then?"

"You'd be correct. Your superior does not trust me. I can't entirely blame him. Were the truth of the matter known, it would cause different problems in suspicions' place. The delicate balance is establishing enough of the truth–that I have no interest in mining you for Khaenri’ahn secrets, that I deeply enjoy you–and then obfuscating the rest."

“Very well. How do you propose to do that?”

Puspa Cafe was on them in a blink. Rukkhadevata gathered a skirt up in her free hand and spun around to face him. What a strange series of events he was caught in! Dainsleif, Khaenri’ah’s Twilight Sword, collaborating with Sumeru’s Archon to conceal a tryst. It was the surest testament to how much he trusted her. Before he could stop himself, he reached up and cupped her jaw in his palm. Her heavy gold earrings smacked against his knuckle. Reckless? Yes. They were very much in public. But Dainsleif couldn’t ignore the way her eyes went hazy and soft at his touch, nor how she leaned into him. 

“Bold,” she murmured. “You’re very bold, sir.”

What could he say? Rukkhadevata made him impulsive. After (scant) seconds, he dropped his hand away. “I suppose I am.”

She smiled. “I propose to–with your permission–bring Takama into this.”

—

The next morning bloomed bright and early, and Takama waited inside the House of Daena. Dainsleif saw her beaded headband and gold ears as soon as the Khaenri’ahn delegation headed toward the lift to the Grand Sage’s office. 

“Lord Alberich? A moment. I need to go meet with the forest ranger.”

If he were more or less suspicious today, the elder man didn’t show it. He just glanced over at Takama. “We’ll continue our way. Meet us whenever you’re done.”

“Certainly.”

Stifling a yawn, Dainsleif jogged over to the woman. Last night’s training had gone on especially long. At this point, it felt like he was being pressed for a weakness. For her part, Takama glanced between his face and his countrymen continuing on.

“Have anything for me?” Dainsleif asked.

She didn’t answer. Instead she produced a paper satchel of medicinal herbs tied with a string. When Dainsleif went to take it, Takama wrapped her hand (paw? The bones felt different) around his wrist.

“One second,” she muttered. “I’m waiting for them to be up the lift before I make you regret having me involved in this.”

Damn woman. He really, really would miss her. Dainsleif released a loud, aggrieved sigh, but held still. The lift whirred to life behind him. At last, Takama’s eyes snapped over to his. 

“How am I going to regret this?” He asked drily. 

She grinned; a broad, wicked thing that reminded him of a cat who’d broken into an aquarium and eaten all the fish, still licking its paws at the scene of a crime. “I don’t know, Sir Dainsleif . I know I’m missing information, but if I had to guess–”

“--and you don’t have to guess, you really don’t–”

“--I think you’re enamored with my–”

He clamped a hand over her mouth. Takama squealed so loud a laugh that the nearby scholars shot them dirty looks. “Thank you for the herbs. Anything else today, Forest Ranger ?”

Swatting away his palm, she answered, “I’ll be joining you and Rukkhadevata for dinner again today.”

Again. That was a telling word. He almost asked and then thought better of it. Whatever magic trick Rukkhadevata planned on pulling off, it doubtless hinged on him accepting every word either of the women said as absolute truth. So long as this gambit got him his evenings back. 

—

At the end of today’s meetings, Rukkhadevata turned to Lord Alberich. The mood was better today than yesterday. The air was fresh and carried the promise of eventual rain, wafting through the windows and into the meeting room. 

“Lord Alberich. I don’t suppose you’re free for dinner tonight?”

For his part, Lord Alberich looked so thoroughly confused that he couldn’t quite recover. “I apologize, was that on the itinerary?”

“Oh, no. No. You see, some evenings I like to have a few people to my personal quarters. Of late it’s just been myself, some of my assistants like Jyoti and Abeni, and Forest Ranger Takama, but we’ve had Sir Dainsleif join us as well. I thought I’d have you two tonight, if you’d allow me the courtesy?”

Lord Alberich’s eyes swiveled to his. Dainsleif did his absolute best to look as stoic as possible. 

“I do not have plans at present,” the older man finally allowed. “I suppose both myself and Sir Dainsleif will accept your invitation. Is there a time you would expect us?”

“Oh, no. Sir Dainsleif, I have no doubt, can bring you along at the expected time and place. Would you be so kind, Dainsleif?”

“If Lord Alberich has no need of me tonight with the soldiers, then I’d be happy to be a guide.”

Clearly the invitation shocked Lord Alberich. On their way back to the Khaenri’ahn quarters beforehand, the noble pivoted, shooting Dainsleif a stare. 

“I wasn’t aware of you attending any dinners.”

“I’m sure you were aware that I was out in Sumeru City in the evenings,” Dainsleif replied evenly. “Most of those times were in the company of Rukkhadevata or Takama.”

“Is that so?”

“It is.”

“And yet, you’ve reported nothing back to me.”

“The contents of the dinner conversations have been terribly inane. I’m sure you’ll see.”

—

Dainsleif had been bluffing. Fortunately, it seemed like some helpful wind carried his words to Takama. Dinner conversation tonight was utterly insane.The foursome met on the back pathway of the Akademiya and followed Rukkhadevata back to her quarters from there. She prepared them all a meal personally (a delicious curry that Takama demanded the recipe for). Cards came out; Dainsleif and Takama shot such intense smack talk over a game that Rukkhadevata almost cried laughing. By the end of the night, even Lord Alberich relaxed. He poured each of them a glass of wine and discussed the finer points of Rukkhadevata’s book collection with her–until Takama yelled at a bad hand of cards and flipped her deck into Dainsleif’s face. 

The night had well and truly fallen when the two men headed back to the Khaenri’ahn quarters. Clouds obscured the stars and moon. Over distant Dragonspine, lightning forked through the fog. Sprinkles of rain speckled Dainsleif’s cheeks. It was only once they got inside that Lord Alberich paused at his doorway. 

“Rukkhadevata and Takama. They seem…”

“Nice,” Dainsleif supplied. “They’re quite nice.” 

A beat. Lord Alberich exhaled, his fingertips drumming against the doorknob. “I won’t pretend as if I have no reservations on your conduct.”

“Of course, my Lord.”

“But it doesn’t seem as if you’re threatening Khaenri’ah with it.”

“I’m pleased to hear that, my Lord.”

“You’re not as difficult to read as you think you are, Sir Dainsleif. Stop agreeing with me so I’ll leave you alone. It’s obvious to anyone who looks that you’re taken with the Dendro Archon. Not even your show tonight can dissuade me of that.”

Silence fell between them. Dainsleif didn’t know what to do. He stood, arms at his sides, waiting for anything–a reprimand, a compliment, a dismissal. Lord Alberich sighed again, sagging in the doorway. 

“Your feelings don’t override the facts of your position. You understand that, right?”

Dainsleif mulled over his words. There was no point denying it. At last, he conceded, “I’ve been blisteringly aware, my Lord. I’ve not let them.”

“You have a responsibility to Khaenri’ah that goes beyond your job. It is in your bloodline itself.”

“Once again, I’m aware.”

“LIke my teenager,” Lord Alberich muttered. “This is exactly like dealing with Chlothar.”

But the quiet that followed this time was far gentler. It was as if an unspoken accord settled between them. Dainsleif wondered how much the elder man had been through. Did he ever have an ill-advised love? Had he ever been in the same position? 

At long last, Lord Alberich sighed and opened his door. “Get some sleep, Dainsleif. So long as you’re back in your position by the appropriate hours every morning, I won’t go asking.”

The gambit had worked ? Dainsleif nearly stayed where he was out of sheer disbelief. A beat later, and he knew what he was going to do. “Of course, my Lord. Good night.”

“We don’t have meetings tomorrow.”

“Correct.”

“Meaning I won’t be expecting you tomorrow. Take the day.”

“I appreciate that, My Lord. Sleep well.”

Scarcely had they parted ways before Dainsleif turned around and headed right back out. Forget their usual meeting spot. He charged up the road, around the bend, past the ponds, up to Rukkhadevata’s chambers. It was pouring when he arrived at her door. A single light flickered through the stained glass. Good . She was up. He’d had no idea what he’d do if she wasn’t. Truthfully, he wasn’t thinking that far along. Dainsleif knocked over the sound of rain and his own hammering heart. 

A beat. The door cracked. Light spilled out into the rain. There she stood, haloed in green and yellow ambiance, wrapped in a brightly patterned silk robe held in her fist against her chest. Rukkhadevata’s eyes were so, so bright and concerned.

“Dainsleif? Are you okay?”

“Lord Alberich gave me the day off tomorrow,” he panted, suddenly feeling very presumptuous. “He said directly that he won’t expect me for duty. So I–I came back. I just–I wanted to see you again–”

She was smiling. She smiled , and reached for him to pull him inside, and something in his mind broke. Dainsleif forgot that he was soaking wet. He forgot that she wasn’t entirely clad, and that maybe it was presumptuous. His feet moved before he did. 

Sometime later–he checked–Dainsleif discovered they had shut and locked the front door. He honestly had no idea who. His arms encircled her. Her robe slid away; her bare chest stuck against his drenched shirt, like the sun made only brighter by moonlight. He cushioned her head and waist as he shoved her up against a wall. When she gasped, Dainsleif swallowed it in his mouth. That intoxicating hair tumbled free around them. He lavished her bare neck and shoulder and palm with kisses. Thighs went around his waist; he hiked her up, pushing his hips forward to keep her propped there; her chest heaved when he groaned into a breast. Pretty . Pretty, pretty, pretty. She was disheveled and her robe was barely on and she wore nothing underneath, just those eyes that rendered him senseless. 

“I just want to kiss you,” he confessed. “I’m not asking to have sex, but–”

“Stay,” Rukkhadevata whimpered. “I’m also not asking for sex. I’m asking you to stay. Please, stay.”

He’d never had to think about anything less.

—

The sky opened up overnight. Sheets of water fell so fast and thick outside that he couldn’t see even to the roof of the Akademiya below. Rukkhadevata’s room was warm and inviting, and her bed had plenty of room for both of them, so they stayed there all morning. Neither of her assistants were expected in weather like this. Together they prepared breakfast. She made them tea. Dainsleif made eggs (and almost burned them when they were so caught up kissing by the countertops). They lay on the couch, only covered by the thin fabric of her robe and each other, reading. 

Or, at least, she was. He couldn’t focus on that. Dainsleif carded his fingers through her hair and watched the strands slip away. Her little hands folded gently between pages. Only out of respect for her focus did he leave her mostly alone. He wanted to run a finger down the ridge of her nose, dance it over the bow of her mouth. The folds of her waist where she curved against him were a world he wanted to live in. She was smart, and so funny, and so agonizingly beautiful that it hurt . 

“Can I ask you something?” He murmured at long last.

Rukkhadevata immediately marked her page with a finger, looking up at him. “Of course.”

Infatuation wasn’t the word, was it? A painful, aching, desperate, hungry affection settled in his chest. Dainsleif trailed a fingertip over her shoulder. “How long do archons live?”

Rukkhadevata hummed. “Well, I’m not sure. None of us have died of natural causes, and many of us are elemental beings, which live longer. Morax, for instance, is over five thousand years old.”

“Oh. How long do elemental beings live?”

A pause. The rain picked up outside, hammering against the tiled roof. She outright set her book down. “Are you familiar with erosion as a concept of memory?”

“No. I can’t say I am.”

“When beings live for long enough, their memory begins to wear away. You see this commonly in more aged humans. They’ll start simply forgetting things. Well, not even beings like us Archons are immune–not even I, who cares for Irminsul. Eventually, all things are subject to it. And I say all this to say that I don’t exactly know how old my people live. All but myself and a few others died in the Archon War. I’ve lived so long that I no longer fully remember how old some of them were.”

Dainsleif brushed his thumb along her cheek and watched her lean into his touch. “I’m sorry for asking.”

“Don’t be. I dislike talking about the war, but I don’t mind answering questions that involve it. Why were you asking?”

“Forgive me if it’s rude. I was curious how old you were.”

“Oh. That? Hm…” Thoughtful, Rukkhadevata walked her fingertips up his bare chest. “Around four thousand.”

Four thousand. Four thousand . Forget that she was an archon. She’d lived (and fought) through the death of her people as a kind, through a country-shaping war that still carved them apart to this day. She’d seen countless suns rise and fall. Who had remained at her side through her worst days? All at once, Dainsleif felt terribly small in her shadow. “I see.”

“How old are you?”

A beat. Feeling silly, he conceded, “Thirty-eight.”

But Rukkhadevata just nodded, curling into his chest, fixing him with those bright eyes. An grief that was-not-yet-present pressed into his back. In a bid to toss it away, he brought a lock of her hair to his mouth and kissed it. 

Maybe it was foolish to hope she wouldn’t notice. This was the Archon of Wisdom. She was Rukkhadevata, and she was four thousand years older than him, and every part of her was a Divinity that could not be assigned by something as inane as Celestia or a Gnosis. Her hand slid up to cup his cheek. 

(Oh no. Dainsleif looked in those eyes and understood what bothered him. He’d known before he’d Known, but there it was–a sharp, stinging, explosive, simple truth. He loved her. He Loved her, and he was falling for her, and whatever happened past this strange diplomatic visit, she would continue to live in his heart in this moment.)

“What’s on your mind?” She asked sweetly.

And instead of admitting everything, before he could stop himself, Dainsleif asked, “Despite the erosion, do you think you’ll remember me?”

Rukkhadevata hummed. “Your kind live around eighty years, right?”

“Yes.”

“So let’s say I would live to be ten thousand. Even with Irminsul’s influence, erosion will render me incapable of recalling many things. I prefer not to give certain answers where there are none.”

Dainsleif nodded. “Of course.”

“With that being said,” she said, and pressed a kiss to his sternum. “I’m very, very confident that I’ll remember you until I die.”

Exhale. 

Everything became dreamlike–too soft to be tracked, too delicious to forget. Dainsleif was over her on the couch suddenly; her robe was open again. His arm was around her waist, and their mouths were together, and he distantly realized he was crying. She wiped away his tears with her lips and no commentary. Burying his face in her neck, he breathed in the heady scent of oud and jasmine and her body against his. His cologne smelled right on her.

“Let me make love to you,” he whispered directly to her heart. 

Rukkhadevata’s arms tightened around him. 

“Please,” she said. “And I, to you.”

[tellthemeerkatsitsfine]

So much from the Nish Kumar show last night. It was amazing. I didn’t write about it right after (aside from this post that I made before getting in the car because holy fucking hell) as it was a bit more than a two-hour drive home. I got home at 3 AM, passed out, woke up this morning and now I still feel so overwhelmed by how cool it was. Here’s the best I can do with writing about it.

There were about ten weeks between when I first saw this show, in New York City, and when I saw it last night in Montreal. I’d expected the main difference to be that he’d have to rewrite the Boris-based parts of the show he did in New York, since, you know, that situation has changed in the last ten weeks. But he actually cut that bit entirely, barely mentioned Boris or UK politics at all. I can understand why. I saw him do a livestreamed thing a couple of weeks ago, and that showed me the jokes he’s written to reflect the current mess of a political climate. They involved saying he hates Rishi Sunak for being the highly successful Asian man that his own parents wanted him to be, and saying we can’t let Rishi Sunak be prime minister because he killed everyone’s grandma via mismanagement of the pandemic. My guess is that while he expected the North Americans at his New York show to know who Boris Johnson was, he was less sure that North Americans would know about Rishi Sunak, so decided to just skip all that rather taking his “Rishi Sunak killed everyone’s grandma” material to people who might have no idea what the hell he’s talking about.

So the specific political material got cut, as did a few other things; I think he was more pressed for time at the Montreal show. There were enough jokes that were in the New York show and not in the Montreal show for me to now be sure it was worth going to New York for it, even though I could see him much closer to home ten weeks later. That 17-hour round trip to a city that I did not like was worth it just for the few jokes he put in the New York show and cut from Montreal.

He also added some stuff in Montreal that wasn’t there in New York. There were some Canada-specific jokes. Said Boris Johnson was on the verge of joining our trucker protest, which got a cheer because fuck those people. Asked how the hell that trucker thing happened and if Canada “caught” stupidity from America, which… yes. I mean that was funny but it also barely worked as a joke because it’s pretty much a literal description of what happened. Yes, Nish, we had a lot of people who were influenced by American media and specific American figures who targeted them with an onslaught of messaging and American money that funded their efforts, and that is how this happened. I could draw you a diagram if you like. People who got arrested at the trucker protests were shouting about Miranda rights and the first amendment. They think everything American applies to us. This is why it’s important to properly fund and support Canadian media like the CBC to educate Canadians on our culture instead of having everything washed away in a sea of Americanism. But I digress.

Another bit that was not in the New York show was a few minutes spent talking shit about Ed Gamble and James Acaster, which was hilarious. Earlier in the day, those two had recorded a live episode of Off Menu at that same festival (I did consider getting tickets to that, but they were quite expensive and I’ve only ever heard about three episodes of Off Menu so I figured it wouldn’t be worth it). Nish correctly surmised (I say it was correct, based on the strong audience reaction to him bringing it up) that most people in his audience had been to see the Off Menu recording earlier in the day. He complained that as a brown guy he’s out here telling us how he got PTSD from racist death threats, while his very white friends were discussing what food they like. Called them “a couple of crackers talking about crackers”, which was quite funny. Informed us that they pronounce “papadum” wrong; he was it was supposed to sound more like this, and I guess James does something of a white bastardization of it. Then he added that if anyone chooses bread over papadums they’re racist.

Now, I hope this will go without saying, but because someone reading this post doesn’t see or hear the tone that was present in the room, I’d like to clarify that it was very obvious all along that he was 100% joking. At no point did anyone think he really does resent them for that; sometimes James talks about mental breakdowns and sometimes Nish talks about watching sex scenes in movies with his dad, so just because right now James is talking about food and Nish is talking about racism doesn’t mean that defines their whole lives. The difference in levels of heaviness of their material at that specific comedy festival was just a funny juxtaposition to point out at that moment. I mean, James and Ed probably do say “papadum” wrong. But I’m sure Nish forgives them.

In case anyone in the audience did not fully understand this, Nish ended this by saying, “Of course, those two are my friends, I don’t mean it, I love those guys. I did mean the stuff about Ricky Gervais and Jimmy Carr, though.” And that brings me to a particularly interesting thing that was in this show but not the New York one. To explain, I’m going to quote something I wrote about nine weeks ago, talking about the show I saw Nish do in New York. The initial post was about the bit in Nish Kumar’s 2019 show, when he did a whole rant about how Ricky Gervais is an asshole for doing transphobia and calling it comedy. Here is something I added on to that post after seeing Nish in New York this year:

“I just saw him do his newest live show last week, and he again dedicated a couple of minutes to complaining about comedians who run out of new funny things to say so they just go on Netflix to talk shit about minorities instead. Those minutes ended with the words “Fuck you Dave Chappelle, fuck you Ricky Gervais!” (For a split second I thought Jimmy Carr’s name was going to come out of his mouth next, it’s probably for the best that it didn’t.)”

That’s what I said nine weeks ago, and that’s how I felt at the time. I sat in that theatre in New York, heard Nish say he does comedy way better than those “edgy” people who think shitting on minorities counts as comedy, saw him get really riled up and on a roll and flow right into angrily shouting, “Fuck you Dave Chapelle, fuck you Ricky Gervais!” and for a moment my brain was sure he was going to add “fuck you Jimmy Carr”. This was a little while ago, closer to when Jimmy Carr’s joke about Romani Holocaust victims was in the media (if you don’t know what I’m talking about, you can Google it, or better yet, don’t – if you’ve ever seen the whole “asshole makes a racist joke, tabloids make clickbait articles about it, asshole complains about cancel culture” storm play out, then it’s exactly what you’re picturing), so his name came into my mind when Nish described that type of comedian. I thought he might say it, but he didn’t, and on reflection, I did think “for the best” was a good way to describe the omission. No need to feed the media storm further with “Nish Kumar VISCIOUSLY SLAMS Jimmy Carr in Latest Special” tabloid headlines or whatever.

I don’t know what changed in those ten weeks. Jimmy Carr has not said any new and notably offensive stuff since then. But at some point in ten weeks, Nish Kumar decided to amend that joke. Last night, his bit about how he hates “edgy” comedians who shit on minorities on stage ended with “Fuck you Dave Chapelle, fuck you Ricky Gervais, fuck you Jimmy Carr!” He then said something about Gervis and Carr specifically, since they’re both British. He called them something like “a giggling ghost and his ventriloquist dummy friend” who are making British comedians look bad by doing this kind of shit. And he brought it up again later in the show, saying he was just kidding about his friends James and Ed, but he did mean the shit he said about Ricky Gervais and Jimmy Carr.

I would say that’s kind of a big deal. I’ve given Nish Kumar credit before for going after Ricky Gervais, since that 2019 show also has an explanation of how much he loved The Office, how he had all the episodes basically memorized, how he looked up to its creator. It’s a rule for life generally that it’s easy to call out people from the “other side”, people you didn’t like anyway, but it’s much harder to call out people who are in some way on “your side”. So I think it’s a sign of good character when someone can recognize bad things in a person they liked, and are willing to say so instead of defending or excusing it.

Jimmy Carr is another level of that. I mean, Nish Kumar was a fan of The Office, and Ricky Gervais is a fellow British comedian, but I’m pretty sure Gervais has been in America for as long as Nish has had a showbusiness career. So on a practical level, Gervais may as well be an American comedian just like Chappelle; they’re not exactly in Nish Kumar’s orbit.

Nish Kumar is much more likely to cross paths, professionally and personally, with Jimmy Carr than with Dave Chapelle or Ricky Gervais. They’re both on the British stand-up (not at comedy clubs or whatever, but they both tour the UK with stand-up shows) circuit and the British panel show circuit. Nish has done 8 Out of 10 Cats and Catsdown. Nish was hanging out with Jimmy in Katherine Ryan’s living room as of whenever they filmed the end of that Backstage show, which was not that long ago. Jimmy Carr was at this same festival in Montreal, performing his own show. That’s definitely a new level of calling out one of his own.

Obviously, the caveat I add every time I give someone credit for something like this is that there are a lot of harder jobs in the world than being a comedian, and there are a lot of braver things to do than talk shit about someone you know on stage. I’m also not pretending it helps anything on a practical level; I’m quite sure Nish Kumar would acknowledge that him saying “Fuck you Jimmy Carr” on stage does not make life better for Romani people that have their genocide trivialized. But still, it took guts to say that. I bet a bunch of people felt that way, but didn’t say so publicly because Jimmy Carr is all over the Britcom world and they didn’t want to cause problems. I’m thinking of that Last Leg episode when Hannah Gadsby was a guest and said Jimmy Carr is terrible to minorities, and Adam Hills and Alex Brooker and Josh Widdicombe all looked very uncomfortable and like they desperately wanted her to stop talking even though I’m sure they knew she was right. It’s fucking awkward to call someone an asshole if you know you work and socialize in the same area. So honestly, credit to Nish Kumar here. That took some guts to say.

Okay, bullet points for some other, quicker, fun observations about the show:

- For anyone who doesn’t know, the main show is about the time that someone threw a bread roll at him because they were mad that he was making jokes about Brexit and colonialism. Then he learned that this incident had somehow made the news, then it really blew up from there, racist death threats occurred, PTSD due to those death threats occurred, stigma about mental health issues stopped him from getting help, but then he finally sought therapy and is now doing better and wrote a show about it. It is a genuinely insightful and hard-hitting show in addition to being amazingly funny and bright and honest, and it’s one of the best pieces of comedy I’ve ever seen.

- I’d remembered the story of how after the show, his friends who were there with him, including Tim Key and Miles Jupp, took him to the pub and they got drunk. I’d forgotten how he said Tim Key made the hilarious joke of apologizing for having thrown the bread roll, pretending the whole incident was a result of Tim Key thinking it would be funny to mess with him by throwing bread. That is such an on-brand joke for Tim Key to make and was a very funny line.

- Nish Kumar telling us his job is 1) to make jokes about the news, and 2) to be a spare in case anyone loses Jason Mantzoukas – also very funny.

- In New York, he said he knows his audience consists of people who read The Guardian and people who’ve recently canceled their subscription to The Guardian because it’s insufficiently left wing. In Montreal, he did the same joke but with The New York Times instead. I can’t tell if he thinks Canadians are less likely than Americans to know about The Guardian (which doesn’t seem likely, as Americans are more stereotyped than we are as being unaware of the outside world), if he thought the joke didn’t go well enough in America and it would be better if he started changing it when he went overseas (also seems a bit weird since the joke got a big laugh when I heard it in New York). It’s okay, Nish, you can talk about The Guardian in North America. We know about The Guardian. It’s a very famous media outlet.

- I have to give Nish credit again for how passionate he was about this, how high his energy was the entire time, how much he clearly cared about the words he wrote and wanted to share them with us. A few days ago, I saw James Acaster force himself to get through a show, then look at his watch and clearly be relieved to realize he’d already done an hour and that meant he was allowed to leave the stage. He left immediately, the crowd pretty much forced him to come back for an encore, he was not happy about it and did a few more minutes before leaving.

Last night, Nish Kumar shouted at us with vigour for an hour and twenty minutes before looking at the clock, and saying oh shit, this was not supposed to go for this long. Then he continued talking for another ten minutes or so, talking faster and faster like he was worried about not having enough time to say everything he wanted to say. For the entire time he was up there, he spoke at a million words a minute, barely took a breath. You could see how much he cared about this, how much he loved what he’d written and the opportunity to say it. He was exactly the same way in New York. I loved that, it made the show so enjoyable.

I don’t mean to denigrate James Acaster there – I made that comparison to show a contrast and make the point that not every show is like Nish Kumar’s. Obviously, the contrast I’ve just described does not automatically make Nish’s show objectively better than James’. A longer show is definitely not always a better show; in fact there’s a lot to be said for tightly written efficient material (“tightly written efficient material” doesn’t really describe the shows that James Acaster or Nish Kumar brought to this festival, but the principle is still true). But in this case, the length of the show reflected Nish’s passion for the material, the way he was so dedicated to it that he didn’t want to stop talking, and that energy really enhanced the experience.

- Okay, here’s the story of what I wrote last night. I dragged my best friend to Montreal for this show. My friend is not generally into comedy, and he specifically describes himself as not liking British comedy, even though that opinion is pretty much based on how he thought Monty Python’s Holy Grail was silly and has not seen other Britcom besides a few things I’ve made him sit through at times. I convinced him to go with me, for the road trip and the day in Montreal. He did end up enjoying the Nish Kumar… mostly. I think.

Anyway, as I said, the venue was amazingly small and we were sitting in the front row. At one point, Nish talked about how everyone in the public eye gets hate, but they’ll get more if they’re more degrees away from the “default”. He then defined the “default” as white, straight, cisgender, heterosexual, able-bodied men. He said something like “And if any of those are here tonight…” Without thinking, I tapped my best friend’s shoulder, because I had in fact brought a white, straight, cisgender, heterosexual, able-bodied man to a Nish Kumar show. To be honest, he was out of place. He was a jock among nerds. As a nerd at heart who spends most of my life among jocks (due to the sports team that this friend and I have been coaching together for many years, where he is a lovely person who cares deeply for our athletes and his friends, but if you see him on the street he does look a lot like a jock), I figured he could live with that for a night.

Nish saw me tap my friend’s shoulder, and he stopped talking. He lowered his hand that had the microphone, put his other hand on his forehead and laughed. And good people of www.tumblr.com, I do not know enough words to describe what it is like to make Nish Kumar laugh. It’s like making an angel fly. That excitable laugh that comes out generously and too loudly on panel shows and podcasts when anyone on stage says something that gets to him – that got direct at me, and if I die tomorrow I want that on my tombstone. If I die in 100 years I want that on my tombstone. I’m like 30% joking.

Nish asked me if I knew the guy next to me, and I said yes. Nish said oh good, he was worried I might have just tapped a random guy next to me who appeared to fit the description of straight white cisgender able-bodied man. Eye contact occurred. Actually, eye contact occurred a bunch of times throughout the show, sometimes to an extent that was quite awkward, because like I said the venue was really weirdly small.

And at first, I did not want that to happen! At one point he asked the crowd if we knew what that 1965 audience called Bob Dylan when he plugged in his guitar, and I was sitting there thinking “Judas!” Of course I know they called him Judas, that is a famous moment in the history of the intersection of folk and rock music, a famous moment that gets pointed to when fans of folk and to a lesser extent country music argue about what’s a reasonable level of saying “this is a terrible populist bastardization of the genre” versus what is being too gatekeep-y like the 1965 people who got mad at Bob Dylan, and arguments like that are where I live. But I didn’t yell it out, because I could not bring myself to yell out words that would be heard by Nish Kumar. I did not want Nish Kumar’s attention drawn to my existence, even for a moment. But later in the show, when I tapped my friend’s shoulder without thinking and drew his attention anyway, I realized how foolish I had been to resist the opportunity. It was the coolest fucking thing. Holy hell.

Nish Kumar definitely knows I exist. Crops watered skin clear ailments cured angels in flight.

[mikemadethis]

Quick Review: Sonic Frontiers

In my first few hours of Sonic Frontiers I was having a blast. Coming off of Forces I was just happy to be playing a game where Sonic felt fast and fun to control. Jumping from activity to activity was a bit slow but the varied nature of them did a good job keeping me distracted. The more I played however, the more the cracks in the game started to show. The repeating minigames, the broken physics, the lengthy minibosses and the game constantly stopping you in your tracks so it can pan the camera over to something of interest for a second.

Scattered across the map are various activities which can be completed for rewards. Many of these are incredibly simple like the hundreds of platforming micro challenges. Which completely clutter the island full of ugly platforms and rails floating in the sky. These can be somewhat fun to accomplish but they also wrestle control away from the player way too often. Instead of controlling Sonic like you normally would, many challenges will limit your moveset to some degree. It could be a rail which automatically propels sonic forward, or a boss which locks Sonic to a 3 lane runner style of gameplay. It gets to the point where it feels like Sonic's open world movement is mostly just a means to get from point a to point b, since next to none of the challenges are actually testing my abilities with that moveset. In my 15 hour playthrough, I feel like I spent the majority of my time doing things like pinball or three dimensional Tetris, rather than running around and platforming as Sonic in an open world.

These issues are compounded by Sonic Frontiers absolutely baffling collectathon aspects. All of these challenges you can do in the game are to get one of various collectibles. First off, there's waaaaay too many types of collectibles. From Memory Tokens to Portal Gears to Chaos Keys to Seeds of Power, it's just way too many things to keep track of in a game where you constantly just want to be pushing forward. Many game activities require the completion of other activities in order to progress. This isn't too out of the ordinary for games, but it's kind of frustrating in an open world game. Being dropped into a play space with tons of points of interest that you can see on the horizon. Only to make your way over there and be told to come back later. Maybe I'm biased cause of Breath of the Wild, but that game did an amazing job of letting me walk up to something I thought looked interesting and letting me like... interact with it, right away. I assumed Sonic Frontiers was going to be the same, especially since a lot of the marketing seemed to imply you could play the game in whatever way you wanted.

Actually, to be fair to them, Sonic Team DID offer a few ways to bypass certain activities you may find not very enjoyable. But I'd be lying if I said I liked the system they came up with. Okay so you need memory tokens to unlock quest, portal gears (which you get from bosses) to enter cyberspace which you use to get chaos keys which you use to unlock chaos emeralds which you use to fight the boss. But actually you could bypass pretty much all of that ,except for the boss, byyyy fishing. Ya see by collecting some purple coins scattered across the map (or available during a random night time event) you can fish with Big in order to get tokens which can be used to purchase every collectible in the game?! I took advantage of this on the very last Island in the game to the point where I basically had to interact with zero of the activities in the game outside of main quests. All those bosses, platforming challenges and cyber space levels 100% skipped right over. And that's not even including the buried treasures scattered across the island which can give you even more of these collectibles. AND that's not even including the cyloop, this magic technique Sonic can use to fight enemies and interact with puzzles by drawing a circle on the ground. If you happen to draw a circle on the ground with nothing there, you get random drops of items, Including memory tokens. And this isn't some rare drop, if you really wanted to you could sit there and spin and get memory tokens way faster than you ever could by doing the challenges. None of these ways to get collectibles, resemble core gameplay in ANY way, I'd hardly even call them gameplay. If you can play the entire game by spinning in a circle and hitting easy QTE's it kind of detracts from the game proper. It makes me just wonder, is it even worth doing them?

Once you clear all of the main objectives I.E. getting all the chaos emeralds, the rest of the collectibles kind of just become useless. All those bosses undefeated, all those cyber space stages unspeedruned. None of them do anything for you anymore, and the game doesn't seem to care either way if you want to do it. And maybe that's a good thing because the game also doesn't seem to care about keeping a flow state. The amount of unskippable cutscenes in this game is kind of ridiculous. Complete a challenge, bam a cutscene. Walk too close to a boss, bam a cutscene. Stumble across a completely unimpressive structure, yep get ready to get control taken away from you so Sonic can do a Marvel quip about it. This might sound like nitpicking, but I recently installed a bunch of mods just to remove all those moments where the game just doesn't let you keep running and it is INCREDIBLE how much of a difference it makes. All of those simple minigames become so much less of a bother when hopping in and out of them is made as smooth as possible. I'm honestly unsure why they would stop you so much in a SONIC game of all games, but I'm very thankfully for the modders who are working hard to provide some much needed quality of life for this game.

That being said, modders can't fix everything. I still haven't touched on the physics, combat or story yet. All of which are... fine? They're fine. They clearly aren't the best but they're definitely the best we've gotten in a Sonic game in quite some time. With this review I really just wanted to highlight the stuff that REALLY dragged down my experience. The boring objectives, the convoluted collectibles and the lack of flow the game has from one moment to the next. There are things I really like about this game though, I loved the characterization of the cast, probably for the first time since SA2. I loved the Super Sonic boss fights even if they were a bit simple. They were just such a cool spectacle, unlike any we've had in a Sonic game. And while I'm still a bit disappointed that Cyberspace just reused level designs from older games, I actually ended up enjoying them a lot. I like this foundation Sonic Team has set up for the next couple of entries of this franchise. I just hope next time, they actually let me play as Sonic.

[fleurcareil]

East Ontario: Bon Echo and Ottawa areas

And off I go! 9am Thursday 1st June I'm starting my cross Canada road trip with an overloaded car and at 54,836km...

First stop is one of my favourite things in Ontario; paddle boarding along the Mazinaw Rock in Bon Echo Provincial Park, midway between Toronto and Ottawa. After having traversed the entire GTA one last time on the QEW, Gardiner, DVP and 401 highways, I finally escaped the madness and got to spend a few lovely hours on the water, searching for the pictographs that Indigenous people created a long time ago. The first time I tried to find them was with my mother by kayak, but not having a clue what it exactly was that we were looking for, we found none until we realised on a boat tour that they're tiny and just above the water, whereas we had been craning our neck to scour the high cliffs for anything that seemed remotely like a drawing 😂. Since then, I had already come back once to explore by SUP, however now in the mid-week quiet without other tourists & motorboats it was magical!

Starting my trip during an unexpected heatwave (32C!) has been tiring as I was constantly sweating but at least it meant I was not freezing at night which had been my fear. In the morning I did my regular 20-minute hulahoop wake-up routine but this time on the beach overlooking the cliffs... Great way to start the day and as bonus there were no mosquitos!! I kinda had forgotten how bad it can be in spring, but after two miserable attempts at a hike, I realised I will be doing most of my exploring by water until the bugs have died off. That said, so far it's only been mosquitos which have mass-targeted me, without the deer/black/sand/other nasty flies, so I guess it can & will still get much worse.

Instead of hiking, I ended up paddling two little lakes at Sheffield Conservation Area just south of Bon Echo, which is the most southern location to experience the Canadian Shield... it was not as majestic as up north but the bare granite rocks hold their beauty wherever they are! The channel between the lakes turned out to be blocked by a beaver dam, which made me realize that the pretty water lilies that I had seen earlier were basically the beaver's vegetable garden 😜. I had never seen a beaver dam up close from the water, so it was cool to see how it's constructed with a slope of soil upstream, intertwined with branches for extra stability. I tried to spot the beaver as well, but no luck (the only time I've seen a beaver was at Leslie Spit in Toronto of all places!). Someone had already created a little portage trail around the dam so that I could continue to the next lake and eat lunch on a little island (with my feet out of the water as the fish were trying to nibble).

Am now on a campground on the Quebec side for 3 nights to spend some time around Ottawa; after not having done a campfire on the first night I was looking forward to one and bought a 1-kilo bag of marshmallows and my favourite chocolate (dark, orange & sea salt) for s'mores, but the entire province is under a fire ban due to the many forest fires that are out of control.... Am afraid this is going to be a recurring theme this summer, we need to fix climate change asap!! Without a fire to chase them away, I'm already completely fed up with the mosquitos at the end of the 2nd day, so I spent the evening in my "living room" tent, which is a blissful haven to eat, read and drink some wine.

Spent Saturday very chilled in the capital; although downtown Ottawa is small it is very lively due to all the tourists (like me) and I always enjoy walking around the highlights; I had planned to visit the National Art Gallery but wasn't attracted by any of the current exhibits so gave it a miss and visited the neighbouring Royal Mint instead for what turned out to be a private tour of the facilities - cool to see how they make 99.99% pure silver and gold coins! Thereafter past the Rideau Canal to Parliament Hill which was disappointing because of the construction but also because I couldn't find my favourite sculpture 'Women are Persons!" celebrating the suffragette movement that allowed women to vote...I did find it later in front of the Senate building, but only after I attended (unplanned) the annual D-Day commemorative ceremony at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. We cannot afford forgetting the horrible impacts of war so it was a sobering but important moment. I ended on a Byward patio; nothing beats drinking a beer in the sun and watch the world go by!

And today I had a beautiful day at Gatineau Park where I had never been despite having wanted to on previous trips, due to rain/snow etc...I initially did not plan to hike and go supping instead but there was a lot of wind and it turned out no mosquitos due to the cooler weather, so I ended up doing several hikes after all, up to some viewpoints that were no longer visible (as is often the case as they don't cut the trees so that beautiful view when the bench was installed 10+ years ago is long gone), around Pink Lake which is green from the many algae, and to a waterfall that hadn't seen a lot of rain but was pretty nevertheless. I always struggle with making forest hike pictures interesting as it's very green without much variation and not able to capture the true essence of hearing the wind & the birds, the dappled light on the forest floor etc. Tried anyway, and also made a picture of the forest along the parkway to capture the bright apple green of the trees in spring, so refreshing! Ended the day at the Champlain lookout over the Ottawa valley.

Not sure I'll keep up writing so much each time but am clearly excited about how the trip has started so far! 😍

Wildlife: 1 marmot (Bon Echo), 2 male mergansers fighting with each other (Bon Echo), 10,000 mosquitos (Bon Echo), 2 snakes (Toronto Island and Sheffield), 2 turtles (Gatineau), 2 deer (along the road in Gatineau)

SUPs: three (Toronto Island, Bon Echo, Sheffield)

Hikes: one small one (eaten alive) and one aborted (more eaten alive), both at Bon Echo. Three hikes at Gatineau (no single mosquito bite!)

[comfortablynumbkitten]

It bothers me when my family looks down on me when they don’t know how hard I have fought.

They don’t know the trauma I’ve endured, the tears I’ve cried, and how many times I held myself crying one night just to go back to work the next day. The amount of times I went back to the drawing board and didn’t allow myself to give up.

I mean I have gone through absolutely horrific shit looking for shelter and trying to provide for myself. They might want to make a joke out of it but to negate my efforts when I’ve gone through what I have? Because I had no choice? My first few years in the club I’d been assaulted quite a few times, and every now and then still it could happen. I saw no other way out so I went home with scalding hot water scrubbed my skin red and shriveled up holding myself then learned to push it down my mind and go to work the next day. I mean that alone, do you know what that does to a person and how desperate someone is go endure that and keep showing up?

Then outside of that, the clubs died out after covid but really bad last year ñ seemingly overnight. I didn’t know how I was going to pay my bills and freaked out, so I spent a week frantically researching and a week after that I got my licenses. I didnt leave my house for 7 days straight and studied from the moment I woke up until the moment I went to sleep. Then I went to work for a company that I thought was legit that I thought would turn my life around. I was so proud of my accomplishments. I got my LLC, I was dialing over 300 people a day, I was working 80 hours a week, and when that didn’t work I used my lunch breaks to go into business and give insurance presentations. I bought my projector, put together my PowerPoints, built my website, got my cards and marketing materials, I honestly can’t think of anything I didn’t do. I sold my designer bags and bought leads and ad spaces. But nothing was hitting. There was no ROI and I was crushed. I don’t quit. I find another company and find out they’re another MLM scheme. Crushed. I don’t quit. I get a marketing job that would’ve set me up good! But I had spent everything I had on my last two jobs buying leads that were bad and dumped everything into a failing business. I was behind on my bills and was going to lose everything if I didn’t come up with a few grand fast. So I had to quit a solid career and go back to stripping so I wouldn’t lose my house and car. And then my family threw that in my face even though I told them I needed help and didn’t know what to do and they said they couldn’t help and KNEW the situation but yet when I had to quit like I said I would or else I’d lose my house and car i get dads finger pointed at me instead of compassion and understanding during an already hard time. If anyone is fucking trying it’s me. I’ve been doing everything you can think of. And some things were awful, and for me to have endured what I have endured and have family who has never been in these shoes act like IM the fuckup like I’m just dumb and haven’t tried rightfully pisses me off. I’ve had 0 guidance but have taught myself how to use quickbooks, how to do my taxes, build a website, and all this stuff. I got my licenses myself and I KEEP TRYING. Every woman in this family did nothing for themselves except marry a rich man. And to me that just sounds like lifelong slavery. Exactly what I want to escape. So I’ve been trying to do it myself. No guidance. No one rooting me on except my moms side and my siblings. But dads? They don’t see me. LIKE AT LEAST RECOGNIZE MY EFFORTS. Be fucking kind. Tell me you’ve seen how hard I’ve tried and you’re sorry it didn’t work out??? Like???

And now I’m still in a depression from things, but that’s okay. I’m upset with myself for being negative Nancy so I know I’ll turn it around soon and get to work. I’m still back at the club but I know I have no option but to persevere. Quitting is as always not an option. So I’ll endure these next few months at the club and work myself harder than ever, but this time I think I have a plan that works. I’ll work my ass off and get an RV or travel trailer so I have a place that’s MINE that I can’t lose. It’s mine. I’ll rig it for off grid like I’ve always wanted. That’ll all cut my expenses down significantly. I’ll take the excess money I make and redo my business. Revamp my website and social pages. Figure out my products in going to specialize in. Then when the time is right I will market that on my own.

At night I’ll study for my CPT and revamp my other socials to be more fitness oriented and start building that following. And one day it will all be okay. There is a way out and I’m getting there I just can’t give up yet. Or ever. I know I need time to feel my feelings, but it just isn’t time yet. It’s time to shove that aside for now and boss up. Time to pull myself up by the bootstraps once again and figure it the fuck out.

And I guess I’ll just post on here since I have no one to talk to. It felt good to get it out.

[dondon-patapon]

Observation Log 6: 1/19 2:32 AM

Temp: 35 deg.

Weather: Light rain

Obs: No major disturbances to note

The rain outside is a fine backdrop tonight to collect my thoughts and attempt to rifle through the notes I’ve collected thus far. There isn’t much else to be said for this night; the lamp is lit, the sky is quiet, and even the cold is more bearable tonight. So I’ve collected all the scraps and books I’ve collected over the past few nights and have spent the past few hours reading and organizing accordingly.

Near as I could tell, all of this debris came from a passenger ship of some sort. Bits and pieces of notes from different authors appeared to be personal in nature. Self-reflective, in some cases. Others addressed to specifically named people. Friends? Loved ones? One in particular was looking forward to seeing their kids again - that one hurt to read. If that note wound up on my shores, then, well. 

Passengers. With hopes and dreams of their own, stories snuffed out in one fell swoop. Lost into the void of space, left unfinished. Some of these I could identify by name, while other effects I only had bits and pieces of, distinguished only by their handwriting. So I just kept filing them away as I read, took in the snippets of their stories. I’ll have to try and gather some supplies, make a proper memorial for them.

A few logs in particular caught my attention, from a well-preserved black logbook. This here was written in the tone of a ship’s officer, by my reading. Couldn’t discern a name, but there were plenty of detailed observations to comb through, labeled with dates and times, as well as unique navigation specifics. Definitely a member of the ship’s crew at minimum.

I wonder sometimes if I should be more succinct and to the point, instead of waxing lyrical like I  tend to do. This was never previously in my nature, but I’ve taken a liking to it. If anyone reads this, perhaps you’ll have the grace to forgive me for it.

At any rate, a few things stood out to me here. Of note, the crew were on edge after passing through a contested sector of space. I am not most familiar with said conflict, but our officer friend was concerned with a hostile military presence as well as the threat of pirates pursuing them. And yet the logs continued for another week or so without any further mention of this threat. Curiously, though, they started noticing odd lights following them. First, an aurora-like observation, colors flashing through the night sky. Further down the line they saw orb-like colored lights hovering in the distance. Orb-like lights… Now that rung a bell. How close did they come to my lighthouse? Closer than I had expected. And fairly recently, too.

Whatever tore them to shreds, it happened far out of my line of sight, unfortunately. Their last log ended abruptly.

My conclusion? This was a professional crew contracted to transport passengers out of a contested sector of space - refugees, most likely. I’d have to look through any sort of physical wreckage that washed up if I wanted to draw any conclusions about how they met their end. The potential of something truly dangerous being out there around me does give me pause. But tonight, of all nights, my thoughts are only with them.

Voices, whispering all around me. Faint gasps of wind muttering indistinct words within earshot. Am I intruding in your memories?

They linger through the rest of my night tonight. They bring me no anxiety. Why should they? They’re mourning their own loss. There is no ill will in this lighthouse tonight.

You won’t be forgotten, I’ll make sure of that.