#its relentless and absurd

[bottombaron]

whenever i think abt writing Nandor and i get going thru a series of sequences of him behaving like a well-adjusted, caring, adult i have to stop myself, backspace several mental paragraphs and remember that he's basically a semi-captive lion being observed in a nature documentary and he functions on 92% Id

[slu7formen]

luke castellan x fem!reader

Luke has been making fun of your ‘unnecessarily absurd beauty routine’ —as he liked to call it— for the past week, so, you decide to drown him in it, just to see how much he can handle.

warnings: just a single use of the word b1tch, fluff at the end <3, little use of yn

reminder: english’s not my first language so I apologize for any spelling mistakes

₊˚⊹♡

i. the eyebrows

“Ow, ow, ow! That hurt!”

“No it didn´t!”

“Yes, it did!”

“Shut up and hold still”

“Ow! You´re pinching my skin, you bitch!”

“That was fully on porpuse”

A chorus of laughter erupted from the nearby bunk beds. Most of the boys, Luke´s half-siblings, gathered around you both, enjoying the show, eyes gleaming with mischief as they witnessed their usually stoic and confident counselor reduced to a whiny mess. Luke´s head was leaning on your thighs as you plugged his eyebrows with some dangerously sharp tweezers.

“See, that´s what you get for making fun of a girl” Travis Stoll, the elder of the Stoll brothers, joined in, a smirk on his lips. "We all warned you about messing with her” he pointed towards you.

“Shut up, Travis!” Luke spat.

You enjoyed the way his face was turning red, from embarrasment and because he was trying so hard to hold back his tears.

“You know, Luke” you started, plugging on another thin hair which earned you a little curse whispered from his lips. “You can always just, give up on the bet”

You found yourself enjoying the sight immensely. The perfect Hermes´ cabin counselor who'd spent the past week mocking your beauty routine,– here he was, sprawled across your lap, a prisoner of your tweezers.

“There´s no way in hell I´m letting you beat me that easily" he declared, though his voice lacked its usual conviction.

You couldn't help but smirk. The bet had been born out of sheer frustration. For the past week, Luke had been relentless in his teasing about your beauty regimen. He'd mocked the meticulous way you cared for your eyebrows, the endless battle against unwanted body hair, the whining about the occasional pimples even when you spent a good twenty minutes locked in the bathroom cleaning your skin. He'd called you high-maintenance, a slave to societal expectations, and everything in between.

Finally, you'd snapped. "Alright, Castellan" you'd declared, eyes blazing. "How about a little bet? If you can handle a full day of 'girl stuff,' I'll clean your cabin for a week"

The look of surprise on Luke's face had been priceless. He'd scoffed, of course, overconfident and utterly clueless about the sheer torture involved in waxing, tweezing, and mud masks. But fueled by his arrogance, he'd readily agreed.

Now, here you were, watching him squirm on your lap like a fish, a testament to his underestimation of the situation. A wave of satisfaction washed over you. It wasn't just about winning the bet, though that was certainly a perk. It was about showing him, in a slightly sadistic way, that there was more to "girl stuff" than he thought. It was about proving that self-care wasn't about vanity, but about feeling confident and comfortable in your own skin.

“As you wish, little baby”

Chris suddenly appeard in your vision, the satisfaction on his face plagged as if he was enjoying this more than you did. “You know, yn” he called out, you momentarily stopped, accidentally giving Luke a break. “Luke has a little hair situation going on under his arms”

“What!?” Luke blurted out. His siblings laughed again.

“He does?” you asked Chris, looking down at Luke and patting his head like a little kid.

“Oh, yeah” Chris smirked. “Maybe that could be the next step, don´t you think?”

“I´m gonna-” Luke tried to get up from his bed, hands reaching out towards Chris. He took a step back just as you grabbed Luke by his shoulders and pushed him down again towards your lap.

“I´m not done with you yet, tough guy. But Chris´ right. Get your hairy armpits ready”

ii. the waxing

You pulled out a box of waxing stripes. Luke, oblivious to the impending torture, was too engrossed in examining his newly sculpted eyebrows in the hand mirror you'd provided. A satisfied smirk played on your lips. The eyebrows looked fantastic – perfectly groomed without being overly feminine. Because yes, he asked you to keep them as close to their natural shape as possible.

“Shirt off” you declared.

His head whipped towards you, eyes wide with horror and disbelief. His half-brothers, mirrored his action, erupting in a chorus of whistles and catcalls.

"Excuse you?" he sputtered, h is voice a touch higher than usual.

"Damn," Connor drawled to you. "at least ask the guy out first"

You rolled your eyes. Luke shot him a withering glare, but beneath the bluster, you could see a flicker of nervousness.

You held up the waxing strips. “It´s time for your armpits, champion” you announced with a playful lilt in your voice. You began rubbing the strips together to warm the wax.

He whined, pulling his camp t-shirt over his head, revealing his well-toned torso, and throwing it over a nearby bunk. You stole a glance at his body for a microsecond, a slight red blush coloring your cheeks. His brothers were quick to start a echo of whistles.

He flopped down heavily on the bed, one arm raised awkwardly above his head. To your surprise, there wasn't as much hair as you'd anticipated. But that didn't diminish the sheer terror radiating from him. You stifled a laugh. "Relax, Luke" you said, your voice gentler now. "The tenser you are, the worse it'll be."

His brothers leaned in closer, their eyes glued to the scene unfolding before them. You carefully pressed the strip against his skin, smoothing it down with the practiced ease. He held his breath, his entire body tensing in anticipation.

You inhaled sharply yourself, then you ripped the strip off in one swift motion. Luke let out a yelp that would have made a banshee proud. His face contorted in pain, and his free hand clenched into a fist. His brothers erupted in laughter, their amusement fueled by his pain.

"Alright, alright" you said, trying to sound sympathetic despite the laughter bubbling in your throat. "Deep breaths, Luke. If you don´t relax, it´s gonna hurt more"

He glared at you, his voice laced with a hint of betrayal. "Easy for you to say."

Ignoring his grumbling, you ripped off another strip. A chorus of gasps filled the room, and Luke let out another yelp, his face turning an even deeper shade of red.

"See?" you said, holding up the strip adorned with a few stray hairs. "Not so bad, right?"

He wanted to murder you.

"Don't you use anesthesia for this?" he wheezed after a particularly harsh pull on his other armpit, his eyes watering slightly.

“We´re not babies, Luke” you replied, shaking your head. "Just good old-fashioned grit and determination. Besides, you wouldn't want to miss out on the full 'girl stuff' experience, would you?"

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity —at least for Luke—, you finished. His armpits were as smooth as a baby´s butt. His brothers, unable to resist themselves, reached out and slapped the freshly waxed skin, earning them a swift kick each from a now-furious Luke.

iii. the skincare

"Skincare? Seriously?" Luke asked, sitting down on your bed, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

You all went to your cabin to continue his so claimed ‘girl´s day´. You would´ve paid to take a picture of your sisters´ faces when they saw you walk in with a bunch of boys following you behind.

“Just lay down, princess” you declared “I´ll bring my stuff”

He leaned back against the your pushy pillows, getting comfortable.

“First time on a girl´s bed?” Chris asked, earning a few laughs from his siblings.

“Shut up” Luke spat.

You came back with your washbag, full of different products that nearly gave Luke a heart attack. You had to assure him that this time, this wasn´t gonna hurt. At least not the first part, but you kept it a secret.

"Alright, beautiful” you teased. “Let’s get started. First thing’s first. “Cleansing”

You dipped a soft washcloth in warm water and began gently wiping away the dirt and sweat from his face. Luke closed his eyes, a look of unexpected serenity washing over his features. You noticed him get loose under your touch, a slight smile playing on his lips, and crossed his arms over his chest in a gesture of surprising compliance.

“Wow” he said. “This is actually quite nice”

"See?" you said softly. "This isn't so bad"

He opened one eye, a playful glint mirroring your own. "Not bad at all" he admitted, a hint of amusement in his voice “Guys, you should try this."

The Hermes´ cabin boys leaned in closer, their usual boisterousness replaced by a quiet attentiveness. They watched as your fingers moved with a practiced ease, cleansing Luke's skin with a tenderness they hadn't seen before. They saw you take some cleanser, and rub it softly against Luke´s skin.

They all exchanged glances, a new kind of curiosity flickering in their eyes. Usually, the sight of anyone touching Luke, let alone his face, would have elicited a barrage of teasing. But seeing you, your movements gentle and practiced as you gathered a gentle cleanser, they found themselves strangely mesmerized.

"Well, he looks chill" Connor added. "Could you clean my face sometime, yn?"

You chuckled, throwing a playful glance thorwn at him. "Maybe later, Connor. Right now, it's all about Luke's glow-up."

Next came the toner, followed by a light moisturizer. Luke remained surprisingly still, his eyes closed, a contented sigh escaping his lips from time to time. His brothers, bored by the lack of drama, started to get bored.

Just as you were about to get some eye patchs, your eyes drifted on a little tool inside your washbag; your blackhead remover. An idea came up to you.

"Alright, Luke" you announced, a hint of warning in your voice. "Time for the fun part."

You reached for a steaming hot towel and pressed it gently against his nose and forehead. He inhaled deeply, the steam opening up his pores.

"This feels so nice" he mumbled, his voice muffled by the towel.

A slow grin spread across your face. "Oh, it gets better" you said, an evil spark in your eyes.

You grabbed the blackhead extractor and, with practiced ease, began gently removing the unwanted blemishes.

Suddenly, Luke's eyes flew open, a look of pure horror replacing his previous serenity. "Wait! What are you doing?" he shrieked.

"Shh" you hushed him playfully. "Relax. These little guys gotta go. Trust me, it'll be better for your skin in the long run."

"But it hurts!" he whined, swatting your hand away with a surprisingly weak attempt.

"Just a little pinch" you reassured him, your voice a mockery he hated. "Besides, if you don't remove them now, they'll grow bigger and poppier, and that will hurt even more."

Luke opened his mouth to protest, but the words died on his lips as you expertly extracted another blackhead. This bet was getting a little harder to beat than expected. He winced slightly, then a defeated sigh escaped his lips.

“So, Connor” you called. “You wanted to be next, right?”

iv. make up

"So," you began, a sly smile playing on your lips as you settled into the chair across from Luke, "you think makeup is easy, right?"

"Shouldn't be that hard, I guess" he mumbled, trying to sound confident. Inside, however, his stomach churned with fear and worry.

You gestured towards your desk, which was now overflowing with an array of colorful tubes, palettes, and brushes – an arsenal of beauty products foreign to the boys' eyes. "Alright then," you declared, a playful lilt in your voice. "Here's a little game. I'll show you each product and you have to guess what it's for. Every one you get wrong? Goes on your face."

Luke's eyes widened in horror.

"Wait, what?" he sputtered, a nervous tremor in his voice. "You can't be serious!"

You raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. "But Luke, you just said makeup was easy. This is your chance to prove it!"

"This is cheating" he mumbled, looking betrayed. "You never mentioned makeup in the bet!"

"Technically," you countered, holding up a finger, "it's still 'girl stuff’, as you call it”

A groan escaped Luke's lips. He shot a desperate glance towards his brothers, hoping for some kind of intervention. Charles Beckendorf, who allegedly decided to join the fun, just grinned towards him.

"Don't chicken out now, Luke" he said, arms crossed over his chest. "You can always give up on the bet and let her win”

Luke glared at his friend, silently cursing the day he ever agreed to this ridiculous wager. He sighed dramatically, slumping back on the bed. "Fine" he mumbled, defeated. "At least try your best to make me look decent."

“That´s not gonna be on me, dear”

You couldn't help but laugh at his misery. You reached across the desk, picking up a sleek black tube with a silver cap. It felt cool and smooth in your hand.

"What do you think this is?" you asked, holding it up for him to see.

Luke squinted at the tube, his brow furrowed in concentration. He recalled seeing something similar in movies, actresses applying it with a flick of their wrist. An idea flickered in his mind.

"Eyeliner?" he ventured, his voice laced with a hint of uncertainty.

You arched an eyebrow, feigning surprise. "Huh, correct”

You set the eyeliner aside, a mischievous glint returning to your eyes. Next up, you picked up a thin, wooden-looking tool with a pointed tip. There was a small, round piece of what looked like colored chalk attached to the end.

"Alright," you announced, "round two. What is this?"

Luke studied the object carefully. It did resemble a pencil, but the colored tip threw him off. He wracked his brain, trying to recall anything similar he'd seen in the vast array of makeup products on your desk.

"Uh… a pencil?" he finally ventured, his voice lacking conviction.

You burst into laughter, the sound echoing through the cabin. Tears welled up in your eyes quickly, blurring your vision slightly.

"A pencil, Luke?" you wheezed, wiping a tear from your cheek. "It’s a lip liner"

Luke's cheeks flushed crimson.

"Lip liner?" he echoed, his voice barely a whisper. "For what? Do I need to draw on a bigger mouth?" He gestured to his own lips, a hint of self-consciousness creeping into his voice.

You shook your head, stifling another giggle. "No, no need for a bigger mouth. Lip liner helps define the shape of your lips."

With a shake of your head, you said, "Now the fun part begins. Bring those lips here, handsome."

Luke leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his face hovering a few inches from yours. The air got filled with a strange tension, probably because his brothers walked closer so they could get a better look. His breath hitched slightly as your fingers brushed against his skin, sending a shiver down his spine.

“You´re lucky this is the same shade as your natural lip color” you whisper.

“Yeah” Chris adds. “Maybe you should wear it more often, handsome” he reaches out his hand to squeeze Luke´s cheeks, but he´s quick enough to slap his hand away.

“Shut up”

The minutes that followed were filled with a more lighthearted energy. You continued the game, Luke surprisingly getting a few things right – foundation, and even a surprisingly good guess on a shimmery eyeshadow palette.

But he wasn't without his misses. The concealer, a light, creamy formula designed to camouflage blemishes, ended up being applied liberally under his eyes, leaving him with a ghostly pallor that had his brothers doubled over in laughter. Then came the blush. A delicate peach shade, turned his cheeks a comical shade of fuchsia thanks to your deliberately exaggerated application with a fluffy brush.

His brothers, fueled by this new display of comedic gold, howled with laughter. Charles, wiping tears from his eyes, wheezed, “He-, he looks like a baboon in heat”

"Oh man" Travis howled, clutching his stomach. "This is even better than the armpit wax"

Next came the eyelash curler, that strange-looking contraption that promised to create dramatic, fluttery lashes. The moment you held it up, Luke's eyes widened in suspicion. He snatched it from your hand before you could ask him what he though it was.

"What the hell is this!?" he exclaimed, his voice laced with a mixture of disgust and fear. "You girls like torturing yourselves with these things?"

You reached out and gently took the curler back. "No torture involved" you replied. “And since you know absolutely nothing about it…"

He tried to look defiant, but a flicker of uncertainty betrayed him. "I know what it is" he mumbled, avoiding your gaze.

"Oh really?" you challenged, raising an eyebrow. "Then what is it?"

You handed him the curler and watched as he fumbled with it, his big hands clearly not designed for such delicate work. He eventually gave up with a defeated sigh.

"Okay" he grumbled, handing the curler back to you. "Do your worst."

The final touches were a disaster, a glorious, hilarious disaster. Every fiber of Luke's being screamed in protest as you handed the brushes over to his merciless brothers.

“Come here, Lookie-Pookie” Travis cooed, his voice dripping with mock sweetness as he leaned in with a thick brush loaded with sparkly eyeshadow. Luke recoiled, swatting his hand away with a glare.

"Don't touch me!”

“Come on Luke, give us those pretty little lips. We need to make sure they're nice and kissable” Beckendorf joined, opening a little lip product tube he wasn´t sure what it really was.

Luke wanted to melt into the floor, his face burning hotter than the volcanic eyeshadow now smudged across his eyelids. The audacity, the betrayal! His own brothers, the supposed bastions of masculinity, were gleefully participating in this humiliation.

“Maybe some of this highlighter will make him look prettier”

He couldn´t believe his own brothers knew what highlighter was except for him.

As he looked at his reflection in the mirror, a mix of horror and amusement washed over him. He never thought he'd feel so violated by makeup. But somewhere amidst the frustration and embarrassment, a strange sense of camaraderie bubbled up. His brothers, usually his biggest tormentors, were doubled over with laughter, tears streaming down their faces. And you, the leader of this whole mess, were practically glowing with barely suppressed mirth.

Despite himself, a smile tugged at the corner of Luke's lips. Maybe this wasn't so bad after all. Sure, he looked like a technicolor disaster, but the shared laughter, the fun, it felt strangely… good. He glanced at you, your eyes sparkling with amusement.

"Gods” he breathed, shaking his head in mock disbelief. "This is the best day of your life, isn't it?"

You couldn't help but laugh, a genuine, unrestrained laugh that filled the cabin. "Hell yeah it is" you replied as you offer him make up wipes.

v. the reconcile

Night had fallen, painting the sky with shimmering stars. The campfire illuminated the campers´ face, its flames dancing higher as the Apollo cabin filled the air with joyful camp songs. Laughter mingled with the strumming of guitars and lyres, creating a symphony of pure summer camp bliss.

The fire itself danced in response to the campers' emotions. It roared a little higher with every burst of laughter, dimmed momentarily during a quiet story, and flickered with a playful intensity as the Hermes boys, fueled by their mischievous exploits, recounted their version of the day's events.

You sat by the fire, poking a marshmallow with a stick, watching the scene unfold. Their narrative, of course, focused heavily on your supposed "torture" of Luke. Specially the Stoll brothers; they painted a picture of you as a ruthless makeup artist, a waxer who pealed Luke´s skin off and left his face shining like marble. Meanwhile, Luke simply sat there, a faint smile playing on his lips.

You noticed the Hermes boys regaling other campers with their story, punctuated by bursts of laughter. And yes, you didn´t like to admit it but, you'd lost the bet. Technically. But watching Luke handle their teasing with surprising grace, a hint of amusement in his eyes, filled you with a strange satisfaction.

You were there by yourself for a few more minutes. The camp sounds filling your ears as you tried your best not to stuff your face in all the toasted marshmallows your sisters offered you. Your hands felt tired, because yes, even though what you did was not too much for you to handle, Luke squirmed and behaved like a worm covered in salt, which only made your work harder.

Just then, a figure settled in front of you. Luke. He held two sticks, each crowned with a perfectly toasted marshmallow. He offered one to you, his usual smirk replaced by a genuine smile.

"Truce?" he asked, his voice laced with a playful challenge.

You couldn't help but grin, accepting the marshmallow with a playful jab. "Truce"

He sat beside you, the marshmallow on his stick disappearing in one swift, hungry bite. Suddenly, you leaned in closer, feigning seriousness. "Oh dear" you said, your voice laced with mock concern.

Luke raised an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "What is it now?"

"You've got a blackhead. Right, there" you declared, pointing to a non-existent imperfection on his nose.

His eyes widened in mock horror. "No way! I´m not letting you touch my face again" He swatted at your hand playfully, but you were quicker.

"Hold still, you wriggly worm" you teased, pretending to grab his nose. A playful fight ensued, a flurry of limbs and laughter. You managed to land a swipe at his cheek with a gooey bit of marshmallow.

Finally, breathless with laughter, you both settled back down, enjoying the warmth of the fire and the quiet camaraderie. As you bit into your marshmallow, a comfortable silence settled between you.

"So, about that bet" he began, wiping his marshmallow-streaked hands on his cargo pants.

You turned to look at him, still chewing on another marshmallow and a piece of melted chocolate. "Yeah?"

"I don't want you to clean my cabin" he explained.

"Why not? I lost the bet" you replied, surprised by his sudden declaration.

He looked at the sky, a hint of pink dusting his cheeks. "Yeah, but… We're kind of a mess, actually. I would feel bad if you did it alone."

"Aww, Castellan, are you worried about little ol' me?" you teased him, squeezing his cheek playfully. He blushed a deeper shade of red, looking positively flustered.

"Maybe" he mumbled, avoiding your gaze.

"Okay, here's a deal" you continued, trying to cover your own blush. "I'll clean your cabin, but you have to help me. I really don't wanna get into dirty-underwear-business."

Luke considered this for a moment, then a grin spread across his face. "Deal. But I'm warning you, there might be some things you shouldn´t even try to touch with bare hands. And I mean Travis´ and Connor´s bunks”

From a distance, a group of campers — a mix of Hermes, Apollo, and Hephaestus cabins —watched your exchange with keen interest. The playful teasing, the way your hands brushed as you made your deal — it was all too much for their already overactive imaginations.

"I bet you fifteen bucks he's gonna ask her out by the end of the week" an Apollo camper, Lee, declared.

Chris snorted. "That's weak. Twenty bucks says he does it tonight."

hiiya, just thought I could write something different to what I usually do. hope you enjoyed <3 🩷

[transform4u]

I’m about to start college in the fall and I’m staying in the dorms. The worst part is that I’m nerdy, gay, and really shy, but I just met my new roommate and he’s your typical Republican, football-playing fuckboy. I could already tell he’s judging me hard. What do I do?

As you tear open the envelope from your college, your anticipation is a swirl of excitement and dread. You were supposed to dive into the world of English literature and feminist theory, but instead, your eyes skim over the schedule and land on the absurdity of "American Exceptionalism 101" at noon on MWF. Your head throbs as if an invisible hand is squeezing your brain into a smaller, less enlightened shape. It's like someone has taken a red-hot poker and jabbed it straight into your heart, twisting it until every ounce of your academic enthusiasm and commitment to social justice evaporates.

In its place, a new, alien mindset begins to take root. You find your once-vibrant appetite for critical thinking dwindling into a blustery haze of national pride and simplistic notions of greatness. Your consciousness warps, and before you know it, you're morphing into the very embodiment of the obnoxious Republican frat bro—a brash caricature of entitlement and limited worldview. Your intellect, once sharp and inquisitive, dulls into a blunt instrument of cliché-ridden banter and boisterous bravado. You proudly declare that “common sense” is all you need, dismissing complex social issues with a cavalier shrug and an overstuffed ego that clings to traditional values with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

Politically, you’re a crusader for conservative causes, but your arguments are as deep as a kiddie pool and just as uninspiring. You spout off right-wing rhetoric with the fervor of a zealot, your debates more about scoring rhetorical points than engaging in meaningful discussion. The broader implications of your views—what they mean for marginalized communities or for nuanced understanding—are beyond your narrowed gaze. Your new persona is an obnoxious testament to the virtues of self-importance, oversimplification, and a relentless need to project an image of success and superiority, all while reveling in a blissful ignorance of any perspective that might challenge your bubble of certainty.

As you scroll through social media, you can't help but notice how your humor has changed. It used to be sharp and insightful, cutting through the noise with wit and cleverness. Now, it relies on crude stereotypes and inside jokes that only a select few understand. You find yourself trapped in a self-congratulatory echo chamber where everyone laughs at the same things because they're "in" on the joke.

The right-wing rhetoric flows from your fingers like second nature now - it's all you know how to do anymore after spending so much time surrounded by it online. You see conspiracies everywhere and can easily spot "liberal bias" even when there isn't any present; everything is filtered through this lens which leaves little room for nuance or complexity in thought or discourse anymore for both sides of any debate whatsoever.. This simplistic worldview is not only limiting but also exhausting because everything boils down into binary oppositions: us vs them; good vs evil; right vs wrong.

As you pull out your phone and begin to type a tweet for your followers, crude and rude thoughts start swirling in your head. You think about how much better you are than everyone else because of your right-wing beliefs. You imagine all the liberals who disagree with you as stupid sheep who can't see the truth. You chuckle to yourself at how easy it is to troll them online with memes and insults.

Your fingers fly across the keyboard as these thoughts turn into words on screen: "Libtards are so triggered by facts! Keep crying snowflakes, we'll keep winning!" With a sense of satisfaction, you hit send and wait for the likes and retweets to roll in - proof that there are others out there who share your twisted worldview.

As you glance down at the absurdity of your new schedule, specifically the "Introduction to Sports Management and Fantasy Football" class, a strange, electrifying energy courses through you. It’s like a jolt of vitality has surged into every fiber of your being. Your once meek, unremarkable physique starts to react to this new direction, morphing into something sculpted and potent.

You can feel it in your abs first: the slight tremor as each muscle begins to tighten and firm up, evolving from a soft, unremarkable layer into a six-pack of steel. Each ripple of your abdominal muscles pulses with an almost tangible intensity, as if they are imbued with newfound power and purpose. Your biceps and triceps, once unassuming, now swell and harden, their contours more pronounced with each passing second, like sculpted marble coming to life. They burn with a satisfying ache, a reminder of the strength and endurance you are cultivating.

Your quads and pecs are not left out of this transformation. Your legs throb with a deep, primal energy as they grow more powerful, their definition sharpening into formidable muscle groups that flex with every movement. Your chest, once flat and average, now pushes forward with a proud, chiseled prominence, a tribute to countless hours of physical exertion and dedication.

Your reflection in the mirror reveals a new you—an embodiment of the ultimate football-playing bro. Your physique is now a masterpiece of athletic prowess: broad, powerful shoulders and a chest that speaks of relentless gym sessions. Your abs are a flawless six-pack, every flex a testament to your commitment. Your legs, strong and sculpted, support a presence that oozes both confidence and capability.

Your face, framed by a rugged jawline and a hint of stubble, reflects the charm and self-assurance of someone who is as comfortable on the field as he is off it. Your eyes, whether a sparkling blue or deep brown, are framed by meticulously groomed eyebrows and a tousled mop of hair—short on the sides, longer on top, and styled with effortless precision. Your smile is wide, dazzling, and exudes a blend of charm and cheekiness that suggests you’re not just about physical prowess but also a charismatic personality.

Your wardrobe shifts to match this new persona. You sport snug polo shirts in vibrant colors or classic athletic gear that accentuates your toned form. Distressed jeans fit like a second skin, paired with immaculate sneakers that declare your trendiness. On game days, you don a jersey or hoodie emblazoned with your team’s logo, completing the look with a relaxed, oversized hoodie that speaks to your allegiance and laid-back style. Whether you’re on the field or at a social gathering, your appearance radiates a potent mix of confidence, style, and effortless cool—a football-playing fuckboy who has truly embraced his new identity. As you glance down at your class schedule, your eyes immediately zero in on the last class of the semester: "Weekend Party Planning and Execution of the Woke Agenda." You can't help but feel a sense of dread wash over you. However, as you continue to stare at it, something strange happens. A cruel twisted grin forms on your face, and you suddenly feel an immense heat in your brain. Your thoughts begin to race as images of hot chicks fill your mind. At first, it's just a passing thought – like beating up some loser fags for fun – but then it starts to make sense somehow. You blink twice and find yourself sitting upright in bed with a hard-on that won't go away no matter how much you try to think about anything else!

You glance back at the schedule, desperately trying to process the absurdity of "Media Influence and Pop Culture" slotted for 3:00 PM. The wave of confusion hits you again, making your head spin as you grapple with the chaotic divergence from your original academic path. Just then, you hear a deep, gruff voice from across the room.

"Yo Jackson…you there?"

You turn to see your roommate Zeke, an absolute caricature of a neanderthal-looking meathead. Zeke is the quintessential embodiment of a gym-buffed jock, with bulging biceps and a chest so broad it almost spills out of his too-tight tank top. His face is a rugged mess of stubble and squinty eyes, and his hair is a mop of thick, unruly curls that looks like it’s never seen a comb. He’s sprawled on his bed, surrounded by a heap of sports gear and empty protein shake bottles, his demeanor a mix of lazy arrogance and casual dominance.

Your dorm room is the epitome of a Republican, football-playing bro's domain. The walls are adorned with posters of muscle-bound athletes and American flags, while the floor is littered with discarded gym clothes, beer cans fast-food wrappers. A mini fridge, stocked with enough beer and energy drinks to keep a small army fueled, sits next to a worn-out couch that has seen more game days than it probably should. The space is cluttered with an assortment of sports memorabilia, from signed footballs to framed jerseys, and the overall decor screams "Man Cave" with a patriotic twist.

“Sorry bro,” you reply, shaking off the confusion. “Just thinking about this chick Brooke in one of my classes, dude.”

Zeke snorts and gives a hearty, if slightly slurred, laugh. “Haha, you and your cheerleaders, man. You’re going to be repeating sophomore year again, you know?”

“Haha, no worries, school is for losers anyway” you say, punctuating your response with a belch. “BURRRRRP. Hey, we should head out.”

The two of you stumble out of the dorm, your stride filled with a boisterous swagger. The night is young, and you’re both on a mission to score some action. Zeke’s laughter echoes down the hall as he slaps you on the back, a gesture as friendly as it is bone-crushing. You both head towards the nearest bar, your conversation dominated by crude jokes and brash plans for the evening. As you step into the night, the crisp air is filled with the anticipation of adventure, a perfect backdrop for your football-playing fuckboy persona to shine.

The music is blasting, the beer is flowing, and the girls are everywhere. You grab a couple of cold ones and start making your way through the crowd, looking for some hotties to chat up.

As you weave through the sea of sweaty bodies, you spot her - a tall brunette with killer curves and a smile that could light up a room. She's got on this tiny little dress that shows off every inch of her toned body, and she's dancing like there's no tomorrow. You make your move towards her as if it was destiny itself calling out for you to approach her; after all who wouldn't want someone as hot as she is?

"Hey there!" You say with an exaggerated smile plastered across your face."Can I buy ya lady another drink?" Before she can even respond or give any indication whether or not she wants one more round of alcohol down her throat-you go ahead ordering two shots from one of those cute little sorority girls serving drinks at their table near by.

As you hand her the shot glass, she looks at you with those big brown eyes and takes a sip. The alcohol seems to loosen her up even more, and she starts dancing even closer to you. You can't help but stare at her perfect body moving in time with the music - it's like watching an erotic ballet unfold right before your eyes.

"So what brings a guy like you here tonight?" She asks between giggles, leaning in close enough for your nose to brush against hers ever so slightly. You grin widely as if this was some sort of secret conversation only meant for each other's ears only while reaching out grabbing hold of one those large round ass cheeks which seemingly belongs on goddess herself; pulling them closer towards yourself until they are practically pressed against your crotch area where no doubt by now there must be quite an impressive bulge forming due solely from all these thoughts running through your mind about how amazing it would feel having such beauty wrapped around waistline all night long.

"I just couldn't resist coming when I heard there was going be party like this," You reply smoothly without breaking eye contact once throughout entire exchange."Besides who wouldn't want chance spend time someone as beautiful inside out?!"

You continue to talk with the blonde girl, your eyes wandering down to her ample cleavage as she giggles and responds to your questions. She's clearly drunk already, but that only makes her more receptive to your advances.

As you feel her up, your hands squeezing her big tits through the thin fabric of her dress, you descend into the most obnoxious republican fuckboy imaginable. Thoughts of nothing but sex and being a toolbag consume your mind as you take advantage of this drunken mess who can't wait to fuck you.

Without hesitation or remorse, you pull her closer and press your lips against hers in a forceful kiss that leaves no doubt about what's on your mind. She moans softly into mouth while one hand grasps desperately at back of neck needing something solid anchor self during this whirlwind passionate embrace between two strangers who could care less about anything else besides momentary pleasure they derive from each other right now…

"Let's get outta here," You whisper against earlobe nipping gently with teeth just enough send shiver down spine signaling impending climax soon approach if all goes according plan which it will because there are no consequences for actions taken under influence alcohol right? For now though only thing matter is satisfying primal urges buried deep within both our souls calling out loud demand release only way possible given current circumstances - sex!

[fafnir19]

The lingerie boutique

Leif stood at the threshold of the lingerie boutique, an unfamiliar nervousness pricking at him. His girlfriend's incessant chatter about her friends' partners embarking on risqué escapades for special occasions echoed in his mind. "Sexy photos, Leif. Sexy surprises! That's what other guys do," she had pouted, twirling a lock of her hair in that alluring way that always made his heart race.

Leif, a man in his early thirties with a burgeoning beer belly that spoke of late-night pizza indulgences, found it absurd. Despite his skepticism about the "sexy" trends of middle-aged men in lace and leather, Leif decided to take the plunge. His mind echoed with her words, urging him to step out of his comfort zone. So here he was, on a mission to find something "sexy" for her birthday.

Pushing his doubts aside, Leif entered the shop, greeted by a universe of lace and silk. He couldn't help but feel out of place amidst the sea of women browsing the intimate garments. His eyes darted around the shop, trying to avoid the judging gazes of the ladies as he tentatively made his way towards the men's section tucked discreetly in the corner. Among the crowd of women, he noticed only one other male in the shop, who exuded a confidence Leif could only dream of.

"Maybe he's buying something for his girlfriend," Leif thought, feeling a pang of insecurity as he fingered a delicate lace brief. This man was a stark contrast to Leif's own self-image, muscular and undeniably handsome. This type of guy seemed to belong in the sensuous garments adorning the displays - not Leif.

Gathering his resolve, Leif made his way to the changing rooms, his mind swirling with thoughts of how ridiculous he must look with his chubby frame and hairy chest. Once inside the changing room, Leif stripped down and reluctantly put on the lace briefs. Looking at himself in the mirror, he couldn't help but cringe at the sight. "I look ridiculous," he muttered to himself.

Tugging at the fabric, he realized it clung to him stubbornly, refusing to budge. Panic welled up inside him, and he made desperate attempts to free himself from the unforgiving lace. Frantic now, Leif made a decision born out of frustration. With a sudden burst of strength, he tried to tear the briefs off, only to be met with excruciating pain that shot through his body like a lightning bolt. The room seemed to spin as agony consumed him, and he closed his eyes against the relentless torment. It was as if tendrils of magic seeped into his being, reshaping him from the inside out.

Moments later, as the pain ebbed away, Leif cautiously opened his eyes and glanced at his reflection once more. What he saw left him speechless. Staring back at him was a young man in his twenties, chiseled features and a physique that seemed sculpted by a divine hand.

A mixture of shock and disbelief coursed through him as he whispered, "What happened to me?" In a daze, Leif hastily donning his old, oversized clothing over the lace briefs. However, to his horror, his t-shirt began to tighten around him and the fabric of his t-shirt transformed before his eyes, changing from drab cotton to elegant white lace. The cut of the shirt reshaped itself into a stylish button-down shirt, and as if by magic, the sleeves rolled up on its own. Buttons of his button-down shirt slowly unfurled, unveiling a smooth, hairless chest that bore no resemblance to the man he once was. The transformation didn't stop there. His jeans shimmered and turned into tight luxurious silk pants. The silky texture against his now slender thighs and sculpted buttocks elicited an unexpected sensation of arousal, causing a soft moan to escape his lips involuntarily and shocking Leif to his core. "That's not me. I need to get out of here," he whispered to himself, a sense of urgency driving him to leave the changing room. Finally his worn-out trainers transformed into stylish loafers, completing his new look, showcasing his now naked ankles and leaving him feeling exposed and vulnerable.

Overwhelmed and confused, Leif stormed out of the changing room, intent on escaping the eerie enchantment of the shop.

In a twist of serendipity—or perhaps cruel irony—Leif collided with the other male customer in the shop, a man named Brandon. Brandon smirked at Leif, his green eyes sparkling with amusement.

"Leaving so soon, my handsome boy?" his smooth voice resonated in the small space, sending shivers down Leif's spine. Startled and unsure how to react, Leif stammered, "I-I... I need to go." But Brandon's hand reached out, gently touching Leif's arm. "How about we grab a coffee? It's the least I can do after causing such a commotion." His grin was playful, enticing.

Leif was taken aback, unsure of how to respond to such an unexpected proposition. His initial reaction was a mix of alarm, disgust and discomfort at the suggestive undertones in Brandon's words. “This imposing man sees my young and delicate silk- and lace-clad form only as an invitation to bring me to suck his cock," Leif mentally recoiled, trying to find a way out of the situation.

As Leif crushed his mind about an non-offensive response and gazed incidentally at Brandon's muscular frame, a wave of envy washed over him. Brandon exuded confidence and power, a stark contrast to Leif's own insecurities. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy at Brandon's commanding presence, his own sense of self-doubt magnified in comparison.

Leif felt a rush of conflicting emotions flood his mind – despite a tinge of jealousy at Brandon's apparent confidence he also felt admiration for the man's muscular physique and his intense green eyes.

Thoughts raced through Leif's mind like a wild stallion, each one more scandalous than the last. He couldn't help but notice how impeccably dressed Brandon was and how good he was looking. His tailored suit hugging his muscular frame in all the right places. The younger version of Leif felt a tingle of attraction towards this dominant man standing before him. But then, a scent caught Leif's attention - the pleasant, manly smell of Brandon's cologne. It enveloped him like a warm embrace, stirring up desires he never knew he had. Images flashed through his mind like lightning, each one more erotic than the last. He imagined what it would be like to kiss Brandon, to feel the roughness of his stubble against his skin.

And then, like a bolt from the blue, a shocking confession slipped past Leif's lips before he could even process it. "Yes, I want to suck your cock, Brandon!" he blurted out, his cheeks flaming with embarrassment as soon as the words left his mouth.

Brandon's lips curled into a sly smile, a predatory glint shining in his eyes as he seized the opportunity presented to him. Without a word, he guided Leif into a secluded changing room, the air thick with anticipation.

The small confines of the room felt suffocating yet thrilling, the quiet rustle of fabric the only sound between them. Leif's heart pounded in his chest, his body responding to the primal call of desire. Kneeling before the man whose dominance seemed to awaken a submissive side within him, Leif delved into uncharted waters, his actions guided by a primal urge he had never acknowledged before.

The taste of danger lingered on his lips as he took Brandon in, exploring a side of himself he never dared to acknowledge. Brandon's fingers tangled in Leif's hair, guiding him with a firm yet gentle touch. Leif's breath ghosted over Brandon's skin, each whispered touch sending shivers down his spine. Pleasure mingled with trepidation as Leif traced his tongue along the length of Brandon's cock, savoring the salty sweetness that teased his senses. With each passing moment, Leif found himself consumed by a heady mix of apprehension and exhilaration as he pleasured Brandon.

After the storm of passion subsided, Brandon's fingers threaded through Leif's hair, a silent gesture of approval and satisfaction. With a whispered "Thanks, boy," Brandon left the changing room without a backward glance.

Leif was confused and still kneeling there, as a sense of unease settled in the pit of his stomach. Despite the raw intensity of the moment, he couldn't shake the feeling of being used, of being reduced to a mere object of desire. Nevertheless, his relationship with his girlfriend, once a cornerstone of his existence, now seemed like a distant memory.

[moonselune]

aaahhh hello! i don’t know if you’ve already written something like this but what about tav being taken by orin instead of one of the companions? could you do this for the bg3 girls? i know you've written lots of angst lately but you do it so well 🥺  

my talent for angst is a blessing and a curse but I cannot lie I loved doing this request call me a masochist xxx

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Karlach:

The moment Karlach realized you were missing, a cold dread settled in her gut, quickly replaced by an inferno of rage. Orin. The name alone made her blood boil. She stormed through the camp, her eyes wild, her fists clenched tight enough for her palms to bleed.

"Where is she?" she roared, her voice echoing through the trees. The other companions tried to calm her, but it was like trying to contain a wildfire. Halsin and Minsc had to pin her down to keep her from charging recklessly into the city.

"Let me go!" she screamed, struggling against their hold. "I have to save her!"

"We will," Halsin said, his voice strained as he held onto her. "But not like this. We need a plan."

Hours later, they stormed Orin’s hideout, moving with grim determination. Karlach led the charge, her eyes blazing with fury. She tore through Orin’s minions with relentless force, her every move driven by the thought of you in danger. Finally, they reached the altar room, and there you were, bound and helpless.

"Get away from her!" Karlach bellowed, her voice cracking with emotion. She charged at Orin, who smirked and prepared to meet her.

The battle was fierce, but Karlach fought like a woman possessed. With a final, powerful strike, she brought Orin down, her rage giving her strength beyond measure. As soon as Orin fell, Karlach was at your side, cutting through your bindings with trembling hands.

"You're okay, you're okay," she whispered, tears streaming down her face as she pulled you into her arms. "I thought I lost you."

You tried to lighten the mood, managing a weak smile. "Hey, I'm fine. You know I can't get rid of you that easily."

But Karlach couldn’t stop crying, her body shaking with sobs as she held you close. "Don't ever scare me like that again," she murmured, refusing to let you go.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Minthara:

Minthara maintained a facade of calm and calculation when she discovered you had been kidnapped by Orin. Her movements were methodical, every decision precise. She issued orders, gathered intel, and planned meticulously. Despite this outward calm, she didn’t eat, and she didn’t sleep. Her mind was consumed by thoughts of you, and her heart ached with a worry she refused to show.

As she led the mission to rescue you, her focus was unshakeable. When the final confrontation with Orin came, Minthara’s eyes were cold and resolute. The battle was fierce, each strike a manifestation of her pent-up fury and desperation.

"You should have known better than to touch what is mine," Minthara hissed, her voice deadly calm.

Orin sneered, but Minthara’s onslaught left her no room for arrogance. Minthara’s strikes were brutal and unrelenting, driven by a determination to end this threat once and for all. She decimated Orin, leaving her broken and defeated on the ground.

Finally, Minthara turned to you, bound to the altar. Her hands shook as she cut your restraints, and she pulled you into her arms, clutching you tightly.

"Do you have any idea how much you scared me?" she whispered, her voice breaking for the first time.

You could feel her trembling, her grip almost painful in its intensity. "I'm sorry," you murmured, your voice filled with relief. "I didn’t mean to."

Minthara pulled back slightly, her eyes blazing. "You could have died," she scolded, her voice harsh with emotion. "You cannot be so reckless."

You couldn’t help but laugh, the absurdity of the situation hitting you. "I’ll try not to," you replied, your laughter mingling with tears. "But it's good to know you care."

Minthara’s stern expression didn’t soften. "This is not a joke," she insisted, but her voice wavered.

Before she could launch into another lecture, you silenced her with a kiss. She stiffened for a moment, then melted into the embrace, her arms wrapping around you even tighter.

"Thank you for coming for me," you whispered against her lips.

Minthara didn’t respond with words, just held you close, her relief and love evident in every touch.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Lae'zel:

Lae'zel's rage was a palpable thing when she learned you had been kidnapped by Orin. Her eyes blazed with fury, and her every movement was a testament to her determination. If her companions would not aid her in the rescue, she resolved to do it herself.

"We waste time!" she snapped, glaring at anyone who dared to suggest a more cautious approach. "I will not leave them in that monster's hands!"

When she finally located Orin's hideout, Lae'zel charged in with a ferocity that left the others in awe. She fought like a woman possessed, her every strike fueled by a burning need to rescue you. The enemies fell before her like wheat before a scythe, her rage making her unstoppable.

The closer she got to you, the more frantic her attacks became. When she finally reached the altar where you were bound, she barely spared a glance for Orin, her focus entirely on you. But Orin stood in her way, and Lae'zel’s eyes narrowed with deadly intent.

"You will regret this, Orin," she hissed, her voice a low growl.

The battle was intense, Orin's taunts only fueling Lae'zel's rage. She fought with an almost reckless abandon, her strikes powerful and relentless. It was a close call, but Lae'zel’s determination saw her through. She defeated Orin, leaving her bleeding and broken.

Without hesitation, she rushed to your side, cutting your bonds with swift, precise movements. She pulled you into her arms, her grip tight and possessive. "You are safe now," she murmured, her voice shaking with a mix of relief and residual anger. "I have you."

You looked up at her, your eyes filled with gratitude. "I knew you'd come for me."

Lae'zel’s grip tightened, her eyes fierce. "Of course. I would tear the world apart to get you back."

Despite the intensity of the situation, you managed a small smile. "And you nearly did."

Lae'zel’s expression softened, just a fraction. "I will always come for you," she said, her voice a promise. She refused to let you go, even as the danger passed, her fierce protectiveness a testament to her love.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Shadowheart:

Shadowheart tried to pretend everything was fine when she discovered you had been kidnapped by Orin. She maintained a stoic expression, her voice calm as she made plans with the others. But beneath the surface, her heart raced with fear and anger.

The journey to rescue you was a blur of tension and suppressed emotion. Shadowheart led the charge with a grim determination, her mind focused on getting you back safely. When they finally reached the location where you were held, Shadowheart’s calm facade began to crack.

She fought with a fierce precision, her every move driven by a desperate need to reach you. When she finally saw you, bound to the altar, something inside her snapped. She rushed to your side, cutting your restraints with shaking hands.

"Are you okay?" she asked, her voice trembling despite her efforts to stay calm.

"I'm fine," you reassured her, your voice soothing. "Thanks to you."

Shadowheart’s composure broke. Tears filled her eyes as she pulled you into her arms. "You idiot," she sobbed, her voice choked with emotion. "Why did you let them take you? Why didn’t you fight harder?"

You held her close, feeling her tears soak into your shoulder. "I’m sorry," you murmured, your heart aching at the sight of her distress. "I didn’t mean to worry you."

Shadowheart pulled back, her eyes red and puffy. "You scared me so much," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I thought I’d lost you."

You gently wiped her tears away, your touch tender. "I'm here now," you said softly. "And I’m not going anywhere."

Shadowheart clung to you, her relief palpable. "I love you," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I can’t lose you."

You kissed her forehead, holding her close. "I love you too," you replied, your voice filled with emotion. "And I’m not going anywhere. Not ever."

Shadowheart buried her face in your shoulder, her body shaking with sobs. You held her tightly, offering her the comfort and reassurance she needed, grateful to be back in her arms.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

I can't lie when I come to write this little note I am always cackling because I have just reviewed what I have written and thinking what I am about unleash on the world - Seluney xoxo

[anna-the-undertaker]

Nightmares and Nonsense

This is based on this post. I came up with that idea during one of my insomnia induced sleepless nights. I want to give special thanks to @anunholyabomination for inspiring me with the sheer hilarity of their comment on that post. So this is for you lmao additional tags: @leilakaro @sheep-from-rad

Belphegor's nights were an exercise in futility and simmering rage. Confined within the attic's gloomy walls, his disdain for humans stewed alongside a relentless boredom. The appearance of the human exchange student only served to ignite his contempt further. Yet, a mischievous part of him, the part that delighted in the subtle arts of manipulation and control, saw an opportunity in this unsuspecting human's arrival.

He discovered their dreaming mind by pure coincidence. While wandering the endless expanse of his own subconscious, a new dreamscape overlapped his, leaving Belphie adrift and puzzled. As a demon deeply acquainted with the nuances of sleep and dreams, he rarely encountered a dreamscape that could surprise him—at least he thought none of them could.

The dream before him was vivid, an intricately woven tapestry of colors and sensations that resonated with an unfamiliar yet undeniably human energy. He moved through it with the ease of a shadow, unseen and unnoticed, until he sensed a shift—a ripple of awareness that prickled at the edges of his consciousness.

Turning towards the source, he realized it was the human, and tried to get closer, intrigued by their control and clarity, and eager to exploit this opportunity. But before he could get any closer, a voice, clear and authoritative, cut through the dream’s fabric.

“Did I give you permission to come here?” The voice was neither hostile nor welcoming, carrying a tone of nonchalant power that Belphie wasn't used to being subjected to.

Startled, Belphie had barely a moment to register the dismissal before he was forcibly ejected from the dreamscape. He woke with a gasp, the abrupt return to his own consciousness leaving him disoriented and a single thought crossed his mind, “What the fuck…”

The encounter, however brief, sparked an obsession in Belphie. Night after night, he tried to re-enter the human's subconscious realm. Each attempt, however, ended more ludicrously than the last. The human didn’t just eject him but began to twist his appearances into increasingly absurd scenarios.

One night, he found himself manifested at the edge of a surreal circus. No sooner had he entered he was transformed—his dignified demonic form altered into that of a clown, complete with oversized shoes and a garish red nose. Before he could react, an imposing figure that his dream-altered mind couldn't recognize appeared, tall, bearded and dressed in top hat and singlet, shoving tacos into his mouth while shouting about something called Reese’s Puffs. In the background, aliens, decked out like gangsters, were busy robbing some place called a Chuck E. Cheese, stuffing their bags with what they loudly declared to be diamonds.

Another attempt saw him materialize in a dream-designed version of the wild west, where he was immediately put on a horse that had a mind of its own. As he struggled to maintain his balance, dream-created characters pelted him with bizarre questions about quantum physics—a subject he had no knowledge of, much less in his sleep. The absurdity peaked when the horse decided to join in the conversation, offering insights in a surprisingly sophisticated British accent.

At some point he was a fearsome pirate aboard a sinking ship, desperately trying to scare MC with threats of walking the plank, only to have the scene dissolve into a bizarre beach party where MC forced him to participate in a limbo contest. The dream characters cheered on, including the tall man from before who inexplicably acted as the DJ, blasting 80s pop hits.

And again, he was a villain in a medieval setting, ready to lay siege to a castle. Just as he began his threatening monologue, the scene shifted, turning him into a court jester reciting Shakespearean insults while juggling tomatoes. MC, dressed as the ruler, laughed from their throne, utterly unfazed by his supposed menace.

The indignity of it was almost too much, and he had withdrawn with a seething anger, masked by a forced calm. Yet, Belphie couldn't help but admire the human's deft control over their dreams. It was an ability he hadn't anticipated, one that both infuriated and intrigued him.

After numerous humiliations, Belphie's approach shifted. Perhaps he could weave himself into their subconscious as a constant, albeit ridiculous, presence. Allowing the human to get used to him would make it easier to manipulate them later, but that meant going along with their little game. He knew there would be no way to hide that he was a demon, but that was just a small change to his growing plan. Gradually, his intrusions became less about domination and more about persistence.

Finally, the human seemed to tire of crafting bizarre punishments. Belphie found himself simply present in the dreams, no longer transformed or tormented. He was just another character in the ever-changing tapestry of the human's dream world. This sudden normalcy felt like a cold truce, and while part of him was relieved, another part—a dark, vengeful slice of his soul—simmered with unresolved anger.

When they eventually met in person, the attic's dusty gloom illuminated by the intrusion of this peculiar human, Belphie’s feelings were a complex web of grudging respect, lingering disdain, and a peculiar curiosity.

“You,” Belphie greeted, his voice cool but laced with an undercurrent of amusement and annoyance. “Quite the dream weaver, aren’t you?”

The human's grin was all too knowing, their eyes sparkling with mischief. “Had to keep things interesting. You demons take yourselves so seriously.”

Belphie scoffed, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the wall. “You have no idea what you’re meddling with, human.”

“Maybe,” They conceded with a shrug, their confidence unshaken. “But I think I can handle it. Can you say the same?”

The challenge hung between them, and despite everything, Belphie found himself intrigued. Here was a human, capable of turning nightmares into farce, of standing toe-to-toe with a demon in the battlefield of dreams. As much as he hated to admit it, this might prove more interesting than he’d anticipated.

And, of course, he could find a way to use this to his advantage after all.

[robsheridan]

Spectagoria Magazine’s 1978 “Swimsuit Issue” mocked the popular institution with themes of pollution and global warming, depicting melting, skeletal, oil-drenched models on apocalyptic beaches. “Just a decade after the carefree innocence of the ‘Endless Summer,’ we are careening towards an uninhabitable future of poisonous air and a deadly summer that truly does not end.” Editor Sera Clairmont said she was inspired by her experience in the record-shattering British Isles heatwave of 1976, which “felt as though the whole of my skin was surrounded at all times by the bone-dry specters of imminent death, crowding ever-closer around me, nipping at my flesh.” The playful, sexy tone of “the swimsuit industry’s most lucrative marketing stunt” felt absurd to her after that experience, as she witnessed what she described as “psychic visions of a future where our relentless destruction of the planet boils it with rage, and dooms mankind to melt and crumble into the dust of our own ruin.”

It was far from the only time Spectagoria’s fashion photography drew influence from supposed visions or “visitations” from the future. But the British Isles heatwave was widely regarded as a standalone extreme weather event, and Clairmont’s prophecy of an imminently burning planet was mocked as the latest example of her supposed “mania” since going into hiding two years prior and shifting the magazine’s focus towards darker and more other-worldly themes. But while critics found its predictions easy to dismiss, still no one had any explanation for where the magazine was staging such elaborate photo shoots, who the models were, or how some of the seemingly impossible visuals were executed. Rumors intensified that Clairmont had powers to commune with realms beyond our own…

Two years later, the 1980 heatwave in the United States was among the most destructive and deadly natural disasters in US history, claiming at least 1700 lives. It was reported as an isolated extreme weather event. As was the next one. And the next one. And the next one…

---------

NOTE: Spectagoria is an ongoing work of fiction created by me. This alternate reality horror story is part of my NightmAIres narrative art series (visit that link for a lot more). NightmAIres are windows into other worlds and interconnected alternate histories, conceived/written by me and visualized with synthography and Photoshop.

If you enjoy my work, consider subscribing to my free newsletter to stay up to date on my projects, or supporting me on Patreon for frequent exclusive hi-res wallpaper packs, behind-the-scenes features, downloads, events, contests, and an awesome fan community. Direct fan support is what keeps me going as an independent creator, and it means the world to me.

[xxtheophilusxx]

A Little Mischief in the Palace

Summary: In this light-hearted story, Blitzo brings some unexpected fun to Stolas’s hectic day with a playful prank. Amidst laughter and mischief, their bond is showcased through a moment of joyful distraction from the usual seriousness of palace life. Warnings: Tickles Word count: 1k

Blitzo, ever the embodiment of mischief and spontaneity, was practically vibrating with excitement as he strode through the opulent halls of the palace. The grandeur of the place, with its elaborate tapestries and gilded accents, did little to dampen his mischievous spirit. Today had been a whirlwind of chaotic events, each more absurd than the last, and Blitzo was in dire need of some playful distraction. As he approached Stolas’s study, he couldn't help but grin at the thought of adding a little fun to the owl demon’s day.

The corridors of the palace were hushed, save for the faint rustling of feathers and the distant sound of a harp being played somewhere. Blitzo's footsteps were light and deliberate as he neared the heavy wooden door to Stolas’s study. The door was adorned with intricate carvings of mythical creatures and celestial motifs, but Blitzo’s attention was solely focused on the potential for mischief within.

With a deft push, Blitzo nudged the door open just enough to slip through. The room beyond was a sanctuary of order and elegance. The walls were lined with shelves filled with ancient tomes and scrolls, and the air was tinged with the faint scent of parchment and ink. At the center of the room stood Stolas’s grand oak desk, its surface covered in a sea of paperwork that seemed to stretch endlessly. Stolas himself was hunched over the desk, his beak clacking rhythmically against the quill as he worked diligently.

Blitzo's eyes gleamed with mischief as he watched Stolas, who was completely absorbed in his task. The owl demon’s feathers were slightly ruffled, and his usually pristine appearance was a bit disheveled, a clear sign of the stress he was under. Blitzo couldn’t resist the opportunity to lighten his mood.

He crept closer, his movements almost imperceptible. Stolas’s concentration was so intense that he failed to notice the approaching troublemaker. The room was quiet except for the occasional rustle of paper and the soft scratching of Stolas’s quill.

Blitzo hovered just behind Stolas, his fingers poised for action. He waited until Stolas leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms high above his head, which exposed his sides. The moment was perfect. With a grin spreading across his face, Blitzo launched his playful assault.

His fingers danced lightly over Stolas’s exposed ribs, and the reaction was immediate. Stolas’s body tensed, and a startled laugh burst forth, filling the quiet room with unexpected noise. His wings flapped in a comical attempt to fend off the tickling fingers, and his chair wobbled as he tried to squirm away.

“Blitzo!” Stolas’s voice was a mix of surprise and annoyance, his laughter mingling with his words. “What in the Seven Circles are you doing?”

Blitzo’s laughter was contagious as he continued to tickle Stolas. “Just thought I’d give you a little break from all that paperwork. It seemed like you could use some fun!”

Stolas’s dignified demeanor crumbled under the relentless tickling. His usual grace was replaced by fits of giggles and a desperate attempt to escape. “Hahaha—stop it, Blitzo! You’re impossible!”

Blitzo reveled in the sight of Stolas’s usually composed self unraveling. “Not until I get a proper laugh out of you! You look like you’ve been working too hard. It’s time for a break!”

Stolas’s laughter grew louder, his attempts to maintain his composure failing spectacularly. “Hahaha—alright, alright! You’ve made your point—stop!” he gasped, his voice wavering between giggles and relief.

Blitzo, feeling triumphant, finally relented. He gave Stolas one last gentle tickle, then pulled back with a victorious grin. “Guess I’ll leave you to your paperwork now. But remember, there’s always time for a little fun.”

Stolas took a moment to regain his composure, his cheeks flushed from the laughter. He turned to face Blitzo, his eyes sparkling with a mix of irritation and affection. “You are a constant source of trouble, you know that?”

Blitzo’s grin widened. “And you wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Stolas shook his head, his feathers ruffling slightly as he chuckled. “Perhaps. But don’t think for a moment that I won’t find a way to get you back for this.”

Blitzo’s eyes gleamed with playful mischief. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

As Blitzo made his way toward the door, he cast one last glance over his shoulder. “Oh, and by the way, if you need any more breaks, you know where to find me.”

Stolas’s laughter lingered in the air as Blitzo exited the room. The playful encounter had not only lightened the mood but also reminded them both of the strength of their bond. Despite the pressures and formalities that often weighed on them, there was always room for a bit of joy and camaraderie.

Blitzo wandered down the corridor, his mood markedly lifted. He was still chuckling to himself, relishing the satisfaction of having brought a bit of levity to Stolas’s otherwise arduous day. He knew that Stolas would undoubtedly plot his revenge, but that was all part of the fun.

As Blitzo strolled through the palace, he couldn’t help but reflect on the moment. It was these small, spontaneous acts of mischief that kept their relationship vibrant and lively. In the midst of their chaotic lives, it was important to seize moments of joy and remind each other that they were more than just their roles and responsibilities.

Meanwhile, back in the study, Stolas took a deep breath and glanced at the scattered papers on his desk. The weight of his tasks seemed lighter, and his heart felt a little lighter as well. He knew that Blitzo’s antics were a way of showing affection, even if they came with a side of trouble.

Stolas chuckled to himself, shaking his head as he returned to his paperwork. He might not have expected the interruption, but he couldn’t deny that it had been a welcome diversion. And as for Blitzo, well, he knew that his playful partner would always keep him on his toes.

With a renewed sense of energy, Stolas continued his work, his thoughts occasionally drifting back to the playful exchange. It was a reminder that amidst the chaos and formality of palace life, there was always room for a bit of laughter and light-heartedness.

Blitzo, for his part, was already plotting his next adventure, eager for whatever new mischief he could get into. The palace was a place of grandeur and tradition, but it was also a place where joy and camaraderie thrived, thanks in no small part to the mischievous antics of its most irrepressible resident.

And so, in the grand tapestry of palace life, moments like these were the threads of fun and laughter that wove through the fabric of their daily existence, creating a vibrant and ever-evolving story of friendship and affection.

[naboman]

𝐓𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐫

synopsis: The tale in which the honorable and once contemptible secretary of the student council ends up getting more involved than she would like with the respectful Mitsuya Takashi. But there's just one problem—he is part of the group of people the girl detests the most.

Pairing: Mitsuya Takashi + Fem!Reader.

Genders: Drama and tragedy, Angst, Comedy, Romeu and Juliet trope, (Predominantly) enemy to lovers.

Start Point [Next]

"Have you heard? There's a guy looking for [Name]-Senpai!"

Three days. It had been exactly three days of hearing the same whispers through the school corridors, punishing her with indiscreet glances and barely suppressed suggestive tones. She felt flattered by this sudden wave of popularity that covered her like the cloak of a king - beautiful and relentless. However, the crown of her reign was starting to weigh on her head like lead.

Anyway, [Name] had no idea who this person was or what they wanted, and as much as it bothered her, she was far from taking any initiative to confront the situation.

She took the last sip of the orange juice from the tiny carton, promptly tossing the juice box into the trash can next to the table. The school was a war zone - club assistants coming and going at an absurd speed, even though she had made it clear that they should consult their respective advisers. But it wouldn't be a mere misunderstanding or more than one that would stop her from continuing with what she was doing. In no way, she continued cleaning the camera lens. The Nikon D3100 also known as the 'Starting Point for Imminent Discord' - a loving nickname given by some kind members of the Student Council.

Speaking of the Student Council… The Counselors' room generously offered its valuable space to store some of the materials crucial for the school newspaper - needless to say, most were against the idea, but given the situation the journalism club was in, all that remained was to accept without hesitation.

Point for the Journalism Club. (Yeah!)

However, unforeseen events could not be avoided. That being said...

"What the hell are these boxes doing in here?!" The strident voice crossed the room seconds after the door was opened, unfortunately, she knew the owner of the voice well enough to know that he wouldn't be pleased with the news. He already wasn't, apparently.

"Oh, Yuuma!" she greeted with a false air of friendliness, which didn't go unnoticed by the brunette, who furrowed his eyebrows. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"These boxes weren't here earlier today, what happened? No one informed me in advance."

"Look at that coincidence; I can relate quite well to your mood," she replied without looking away from what she was doing, but felt the annoyance manifesting on her colleague's face within seconds. "My freshmen informed me that the table we received arrived today, and we need to remove our materials from the club room. Isn't it hilarious?"

"And who's going to sort this out? You can't just leave this lying around without a plan!" he said as he navigated between the boxes, as if treading on a floor made of glass.

"Don't despair; some of my assistants will come later to sort this out," she shrugged.

"Okay, and what about you?"

"Me? What about me?" she blinked repeatedly, feigning innocence.

"Don't you have your own pending commitments, [Name]?"

The girl raised an eyebrow, then shifted her gaze to the camera in her hands.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, really?" he laughed sarcastically. "Because there are some well-informed girls outside looking for you. You should talk to them to refresh your memory."

'Every day is a lousy day to be in the student council'. She sighed.

"Tell them I had to leave, or... I don't know, make up something else. I'm busy," she finally said, dismissing him with a wave of her hand and a yawn.

The guy felt a vein popping seeing the girl's nonchalance, but it quickly passed - much to [Name]'s surprise - and he soon returned to the door with his warmest smile.

"Of course she came!" [Name] widened her eyes, leaving her comfortable seat to press her fingertips into the arms of the well-padded chair. "Sorry for the delay, just a second."

He hissed a "Come here now!" with a nod and a scowl on his face. Frowning, she reluctantly snapped her camera shut and stowed it back in her bag, heading to the door with quick steps, hands tucked into the pockets of her college jacket. With her sweetest honey-eater smile, she declared:

"Contact the president, he knows what to do and can provide a copy of the notice board if you're interested," she warned, even before allowing the girls to take the initiative. Catching them off guard with her excessive, almost suffocating friendliness, she continued, "I can schedule a time or even—"

"No, it's not that!" Her harmonious smile felt a hiccup with the interruption. "We're looking for the chief editor, Kawaguchi [Name]-senpai!"

The short girl with glasses waved repeatedly, carried away by nervousness, while her short-haired companion nodded and patted her shoulder as encouragement.

"Yes, yes, we need to talk to you about the retrospective fair. We already have an idea to document the club events!" the short-haired one said, proud and exuding confidence.

"Retrospective fair...?" she pondered, scratching her neck in search of an answer. Then, an embarrassing memory about the club's proposal to the council for an event to conclude another school year by documenting extracurricular activities came to mind. This proposal seemed intentionally shooting oneself in the foot, aware of the consequences. "Oh, yes, I remember that well. You could have contacted the other secretary."

"We came to you because you're the chief editor. Is there anyone who understands your project better than you?" she asked.

'A valid point, but let's ignore that for now just to mask my disinterest,' she thought.

"And also..." the girl with glasses began quietly, "we want you to confirm our idea to make sure it won't be plagiarized or something. I-I'm not accusing any other club; I just..."

"I think I understand what you're trying to say," she waved her hand calmly, calming the exasperated girl. With not much else to do, she glanced briefly back at the table inside the room, only to have the displeasure of finding Yuuma comfortably leaning on one of the chairs, helping himself to a disposable cup of coffee. What a nerve!

She internally sighed, finding it hard to maintain the facade of a good Samaritan near the freshmen for such a significant amount of time.

She cleared her throat, dispelling the reveries and the bitter voice that had been stuck in her throat.

"I'm a bit busy taking care of some things right now. If you don't mind... Can you ask your representative to meet me during the last periods of class?" she asked, gentle but firm, with the patience of a saint. "I have a hectic routine, and I don't have the whole day." She pretended, but it didn't take long for her to resume her usual tone, with a suspicious itch in her mind. "By the way, who is your representative?"

"He's the leader of the Home Economics Club!" the short-haired one replied almost immediately.

"Alright, I think that information will be enough," she smiled, pleased with the information. 'Let's see, my good sir, what kind of person you'll be?' she thought in a mischievous tone. The smile might have gone unnoticed by the girls, but the way her lips curved suspiciously amused didn't escape the notice of the veteran still in the room. "Well, now I'll be finished my works. It was nice talking to you."

"Thank you, [Name]-Senpai!" they said their goodbyes with waves and wide, warm, and enthusiastic smiles.

"Bye-bye~" she said slowly, with a low wave, then disappeared with the loud bang of the door as the two freshmen walked away in the long school corridor. "Well, back to what matters..."

"What do you think you're doing? You have work to do!"

He watched incredulously as the girl circled the table completely devoid of her previous persona. If he didn't know her habits, would never believe she was the same person from a few seconds ago.

"Okay, and so what?" she asked, dismissing it.

"You can't just wander around like this!" he complained, frustrated with the secretary's indifference.

"I'll send someone in my place," she said, glancing away to the disorganized papers outside the folder, picking them up one by one. "Besides, it's not even your problem. I don't know why you bother so much."

"I don't want you tarnishing our reputation," he replied bluntly, pouring more coffee into his cup. "I work hard to give the impression that I do anything, unlike someone like you."

"Why all this disdain in your voice?" she suppressed a humorless laugh with the back of her hand.

"Even so!" he quickly changed the subject. "You don't even know what he wants. You can't just send someone in your place, or it'll be an endless game of indirect messages!"

"The messenger boys are precisely for that. I don't mind sending my assistant if necessary," she shrugged, impassive. "And we can always resort to bribery. Or blackmail."

"What a great example you set. If all honor students were like you, schools would be a perfect illustration of how the Cold War happened," he retorted.

"Come on, don't you have anything better to do?" she raised an eyebrow, annoyed.

"Besides scolding you? No."

"If that's the case, you could go in my place, since you're so idle," she prodded.

"No way."

"Really? What kind of honor student are you?" she asked, feigning hurt.

"Get real."

She grumbled discontentedly, almost offended, as she sighed in deep resignation.

"So, I'm out."

"Wait, are you serious?"

He looked at her in disbelief, but the girl maintained a serious expression focused on the materials she was storing in her bag. Almost professional - Yuuma dared to say.

"Meanwhile, wait. Some of my freshmen will come to clean up this mess," she said calmly and steadily, unlike her usual self. He knew her personality was challenging, but even the few times he saw her like this, he knew she was putting effort into with something in mind. "I'll talk to Mizushima; he needed to edit the material."

And she left, giving one last look at the guy in the room, Yuuma, he was shocked and wide-eyed like saucers.

'Your coffee is getting cold.' She said and indeed, the coffee had been cold for a while.

Almost 4:30 PM. Most students were putting away their shoes and belongings, ready to head out, finding their groups of friends for a leisurely walk home. However, [Name] was reviewing her homework, oblivious to the hurried steps and the commotion outside the school.

A waste of time and energy. Just carefree people spending their youth on fruitless things.

"Aren't you going home, [Name]? You're usually one of the first to leave," the vice-president asked, her gaze somewhat concerned as she rubbed her forearm, apprehensive.

It was noticeable that her side bag hung on her shoulder, and the usual animal-themed folder from some TV program was absent from the grip of her arms. She was leaving too.

"Sorry to be insinuating, Suzume, but... was that a criticism?" she asked, giving her a suggestive, meticulous look.

"No, not at all! I just thought something might be wrong," she mumbled, lowering her gaze to her shoes. Disconcerted.

'Spare me your concern - your pity'. She almost rolled her eyes. 'I don't need this.'

"No, it's okay," she sighed, lowering her eyes to the newly completely filled sheet. "I promised to wait for someone here after class, but I'll lock the door when I leave, if that's what worries you."

"That's a relief, thank you!" she said, clasping her hands, releasing a sigh filled with laziness and serenity. "Since everything is fine, I'll be going. See you tomorrow!"

She waved enthusiastically, leaving and closing the door slowly. She mimicked the gesture but lacked the Suzume's enthusiasm.

The room lacked its absolute silence when a faint knock sounded, several minutes after the vice-president left. Lazily, she murmured a "come in" the sound of her voice as she uttered the word was so low and weak that it would have been a frivolous action if not for the silence - disturbing.

Soon, the sound of the door slowly opening filled the quiet atmosphere. Not that she would openly comment on it, but for God's sake, someone urgently needed to put some lubricating oil on that door! That screeching noise was ear-piercing. Setting aside the thought, she raised her eyes from the homework notebook. Shamelessly giving a good look at the person - read: 'Troublemaker' - in an attempt to find out more about that... extravagant figure from the neighborhood.

'Eyebrow cuts and an earring... Let me guess, you have a tattoo? If so, where? - Maybe I can report him to the administration for breaking some dress code.' She thought to herself.

"You can sit there if you want," she indicated the front chair, adjusting her posture in the seat.

"No, thank you. I don't plan on taking much of your time," he politely declined, a small smile forming on his lips, convincing. "But I appreciate the gesture."

Muttered a prolonged "Hmm," almost judgmental. But she corrected that attitude with a light and casual smile.

"All right, let's get going then," she whistled in understanding, pulling out some newly acquired papers from the folder that until recently was an irrelevant item on the table. 'Here's my trump card.' "Takashi Mitsuya-san, correct?"

From the corner of her eye, she saw him raise his eyebrows - or what was left of them - in surprise. Without giving any cues to the subject, she continued:

"The leader of the Home Economics Club, and..." she put her index finger on her lips, making a dramatic and unnecessary pause.

"Did the girls tell you that?" he asked intrigued, but [Name] noticed how his shoulders relaxed with the mere possibility.

"Indeed, yes. But I have my sources," she shrugged, and for a moment, the boy felt insulted by the secretary's intrusion, but only a little. "Don't worry, I didn't see anything too personal. I just took a peek at your academic record."

"Isn't that an invasion of privacy?"

She almost wanted to laugh.

"Please, I'm part of the Student Council; invading other people's personal space is precisely my job," she mocked, as if it were obvious. "Besides, as the president says: 'It's all for a good cause.'"

She threw her forearm over the chair, turning a bit to face the figure standing a few steps from the door.

"But, putting the conversation aside, what do you want, really?" she finally asked. "forgive me, we lost track of the subject."

She could swear she saw him offer a brief prayer before responding.

"A portfolio."

Extending with one hand the authorization form that the secretary had assigned to the club representatives, lacking only the signature of a Student Council member.

"Excuse me?" Now she was genuinely confused, for the first time that day.

"I need your signature," he said straightforwardly, "right here."

"I can read," she grumbled, pulling the sheet from the guy's delicate hands to read it carefully, while he stared back at her with his dead-fish eyes (courtesy of the secretary's nickname).

"I can see," he teased, putting the playful banter aside, clearing his throat before continuing his speech. "As you can see, all the club members agree with the idea. We just need approval."

"What are you trying to saying?" She had to pretend not to be surprised by the information.

"That you are promoting the project," he deduced, making her widen her eyes with the irritatingly accurate accusation.

She gave a humorless laugh, almost as if she were raising a white flag of surrender. 'Looks like you got me.'

This is what happens when you work in the advertising field. Damn!

"All right, it seems there's nowhere to escape now," she admitted, looking away to the table, crossing her legs with a vacant look wandering around. "But... What makes you think I'll accept something like this? The school can't finance the materials, and don't even think the photography club will lend their things. If you want, you can talk to our treasurer, but I warn you they'll prefer to stick to the traditional yearbook."

"The project was independent from the beginning; the school won't spend anything on any of the other projects, and you know that," he pointed out. His patience was wearing thin. "Besides, some of the school's assets can be used by students; providing assistance during the project is a school obligation."

He's right again. So right it's annoying.

She took a deep breath without any shame before facing him with one of her smug smiles. Malicious, unfair.

"And what do I gain from this?" she sounded arrogant, almost a threat to the ears of others, resting her hand on her chin, seeking some composure after being unmasked, stripped, with her selfish exploits exposed.

Takashi looked at her with wide-open eyes, or maybe shocked?

"Let's suppose that, by chance, I help you... Do you know the precious time I'll lose providing assistance on your project? The newspaper won't write itself. As the president of the school newspaper, I say that this won't progress, and we'll all be disappointed in the end."

Spoke with her eyes fixed on the clear orbs of the delinquent.

"We can't abandon our priorities; I advise you to give up." She finalized.

"Since I came this far, I don't think giving up is an option," he countered. "And trust me, i can be persistent when I want."

"What do you plan? Remember that organizing something without the Student Council's authorization is equivalent to breaking the rules," she stood up, staring deep into his eyes. "But that doesn't affect you, does it? As a delinquent, you must be used to breaking the rules."

She practically spat out the word "delinquent."

"You really delved into my record, Secretary," he teased carelessly.

"As I said, and I'll repeat: it's part of my job."

"Is it also part of your job to dismiss any idea that doesn't suit you?" he raised an eyebrow with a small mocking smile. "Your attitude is a bit tyrannical, don't you agree, [Name]-san?"

He said, displaying his indifference, shifting to a sarcastic, almost mocking tone.

'This delinquent is laughing, laughing at me!'

'This can't happen, I can't allow this to happen!'

If one could describe the scene, it would be Takashi smiling while taking a selfie in front of a volcano erupting. Because one could never accurately describe with words how irritated - or offended? Or maybe both? - the girl was.

He was a bit surprised when he saw her lower her head, biting her lower lip. For a moment, he thought she was crying when he heard a low grumble. That's when she approached, marching in her shiny shoes, fists buried in the jacket pockets. With the look of someone about to commit an atrocity.

And she kept advancing. And advancing. To the point where he had to step back, only to hit the back against the corridor wall, realizing he had retreated all the way from inside the room to the corridor.

He was snapped out of his light reverie when he felt something hit violently against the wall. That's when he saw the secretary's shoe stuck in the wall, at the curve of his waist. Shocked, he couldn't help the surprise on his face. He wouldn't be the least bit surprised if she decided to punch him.

That's when she decided to break the silence:

"Exactly," she said, at a dangerous distance, blocking the delinquent's passage with her right leg. Takashi swallowed hard, staring back at her. "And what are you going to do about it, Sir?"

[hanasnx]

BUGGGGYYYYY we're literally talking about Anakin force fingering you in public but I had to bring this to your inbox because... Because duh

But this guy is HEINOUS I TELL YOU, because if he's fingering you in public, it's not slow, it's not gentle, like there is squelching and wetness on your fucking thighs om. All the while he can barely keep the smile off his face, because if the restaurant wasn't so loud, surely all eyes would be on you!! Like it's fucked up, he's going hard and fast and relentless and BLATANT while you beg him to stop, he's fucking embarassing you, "Anakin what the fuck are you doing?". But here's the thing he's most definitely mind tricking everyone into not noticing, but he never told you that. It doesn't erase the shame of doubling over and cumming your brains out at the fucking dinner table in front of your friends. He did this because he got bored and he told you he would, he had no interest in meeting your friends, he only cares about you, this is what you get for bringing him to dinner.

-xstarkillerx

"if hes fingering you in public its not slow its not gentle" ""anakin what the fuck are you doing?"" "he had no interest in meeting your friends, he only cares about you, this is what you get for bringing him to dinner."

he's a menace, a war criminal, a jerk. im in love with him i have to stick sumn up me i cant believe this oh my fucking god

like he has to entertain himself in the most absurd way possible because it has to be a punishment for you too for dragging him somewhere he vocalized having no desire to attend. there's so much socializing that comes with his career and to spend time with anyone other than you and all your holes sounds exhausting. he's staring at you at the beginning of dinner while he devises what to do to you. thinking about how he can get you under the table to stuff your face until he settles on bringing you to orgasm using four of his fingers plugging you up. overpowering you in every way when you try to get him to back off. but you're so wet.. how can you expect him to stop now? it's only courteous to finish you off.

[wandashousewife]

Technology Sucks (Oneshot)

Pairing — Wanda x Reader

Synopsis — Technology + Wanda = WIII

Warnings — Angry Wanda, Fluff??

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

Wanda's tiny workspace felt suffocating, the walls closing in around her as she wrestled with the stubborn machine. The dim glow of the monitor cast eerie shadows across her determined face, highlighting the furrows etched deep into her brow from hours of concentration. Her fingers, once nimble and precise, now pounded the keyboard with a mixture of determination and desperation.

The relentless onslaught of error messages seemed almost personal, mocking her efforts with their indecipherable codes and cryptic warnings. Each one felt like a blow to her confidence, a reminder of her inability to tame the unruly beast that was her computer. With every failed attempt, frustration brewed like a storm within her, threatening to overflow and consume her in its rage.

Despite her best efforts to remain calm, Wanda's patience wore thin with each passing minute. Her muttered curses filled the air, a testament to her mounting aggravation and the sheer absurdity of her situation. The once-familiar hum of the machine now grated on her nerves, its stubborn refusal to cooperate driving her to the brink of madness.

In the midst of her struggle, Wanda found herself longing for a reprieve, a fleeting moment of respite from the relentless battle raging before her. But with each click of the mouse, each futile attempt to break through the wall of resistance, it became painfully clear that such relief was not forthcoming.

And so, with a heavy heart and a weary sigh, Wanda resolved to press on, determined to conquer the obstinate machine that dared to defy her. For in the face of adversity, she knew that true strength lay not in surrender, but in the unwavering resolve to persevere against all odds.

As you sat beside Wanda, trying to contain your amusement, her mounting exasperation provided an irresistible spectacle. The lines of frustration etched on her face painted a vivid picture of determination mingled with bewilderment. Each futile attempt seemed to fuel her agitation, her muttered curses adding a touch of colorful absurdity to the tense atmosphere.

Despite your best efforts to maintain a semblance of composure, the urge to laugh bubbled up within you like an irrepressible force of nature. The absurdity of the situation was not lost on you, as Wanda's valiant efforts to conquer the obstinate machine descended into a comical battle of wills.

With each error message, you couldn't help but marvel at Wanda's resilience, her unwavering commitment to overcoming the technological nemesis before her. Yet, even as you admired her determination, the temptation to tease her gently danced at the edge of your consciousness, begging to be unleashed in a playful exchange of banter.

As Wanda's frustration reached new heights, her muttered expletives took on a life of their own, weaving a tapestry of colorful language that bordered on the absurd. And though you knew you should offer words of encouragement, the mischievous glint in your eye betrayed your inner amusement, threatening to dissolve the solemnity of the moment into a chorus of laughter.

As you sat beside Wanda, the tension in the air palpable, you found yourself on the verge of bursting into laughter. Her furrowed brow and frantic keyboard strokes painted a picture of determination mixed with bewilderment, a scene too comical to ignore.

"You know, Wanda, I think the computer might be winning this round," you teased, unable to resist the urge to lighten the mood.

Wanda shot you a withering glare, her frustration evident in the way her fingers practically danced across the keyboard. "Very funny," she muttered through clenched teeth, her tone laced with a mixture of irritation and amusement.

"I'm just saying, it's putting up quite the fight," you continued, unable to stifle a chuckle as another error message flashed across the screen.

Wanda let out an exasperated sigh, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "I swear, this thing has a mind of its own," she grumbled, shooting another glare at the uncooperative machine.

"Maybe it's trying to tell you to take a break," you suggested, a mischievous twinkle in your eye.

Wanda rolled her eyes, but a hint of amusement danced in them despite her frustration. "Or maybe it's just trying to drive me insane," she quipped, a hint of resignation coloring her voice.

"Wanda, you look like you're about to declare war on that computer," You remarked, unable to contain a smirk.

Wanda's fingers paused mid-air, her gaze shifting from the screen to you, a flicker of annoyance crossing her features. "Oh, it's definitely declared war on me," she retorted, her voice tinged with mock indignation.

You chuckled, sensing the tension in the air but unable to resist the playful banter. "Well, I think it's a draw so far. Neither side seems to be backing down."

Wanda shook her head, a mixture of frustration and amusement evident in her expression. "Trust me, I'm not backing down until this thing does what it's supposed to do."

A brief pause hung between them, punctuated only by the incessant hum of the computer's fan. Then, despite the mounting pressure, a shared moment of levity softened the edges of their frustration.

As the tension between them dissolved in a mixture of shared frustration and playful banter, Wanda and you found themselves drawn together by an unexpected warmth. In the soft glow of the computer screen, their eyes met, a silent understanding passing between them like a gentle breeze.

"Maybe we should call it a night," You suggested, your voice soft with concern and a hint of something more.

Wanda nodded, a sense of relief washing over her as she realized she wasn't alone in this battle. "I think you might be right," she replied, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips.

With a sense of camaraderie born of shared struggle, they leaned in closer, the distance between them shrinking with each passing moment. And then, in a moment both tender and unexpected, their lips met in a gentle kiss, a silent promise of support and solidarity in the face of adversity.

As they pulled away, the warmth of the moment lingered, wrapping around them like a comforting embrace. In that fleeting instant, amidst the chaos of malfunctioning technology and mounting frustration, they found solace in each other's presence, a beacon of hope guiding them through the storm.

And so, hand in hand, they left the dimly lit workspace behind, the echoes of laughter and the memory of their shared kiss lighting the way forward. For in each other, they had found not only strength and support, but also the promise of a brighter tomorrow, filled with endless possibilities and the sweetest of victories.

[juminies]

reliance

day 7, jumin’s perspective

jumin x reader, 1170 words

♥︎

If you asked almost anyone, those who know him personally or otherwise, they’d most likely tell you that Jumin doesn’t feel.

It’s not that straightforward, of course. There’s layers to it.

It would be more realistic to say he’s mastered the techniques of repression. He always only had himself to lean on. How could a lonely child cope with the consequences of gritty rejection at the hands of his own mother other than compartmentalise? How else could he handle the relentless harassment from the shameless women that his father willingly, repeatedly let into his life? It was easy as far as he was concerned—he let the threads tangle until they could barely be deciphered from one another and pushed them aside.

In the recent past, Jumin might have even considered telling you it’s a skill. Developed at a young age, perfected into adulthood. A skill that allows him to avoid inconveniences to his duties; fend off any sort of long term resentment or frustration. Dwelling on something like What extent of lacking consideration might make a good father a bad one? should not matter. Time will pass with or without him. So he simplifies it: objectively bad things happen, are tangled away soon thereafter, and life goes on. This way memories he needs are easily accessed and ones he doesn’t are easier avoided.

Before, on the occasion things did start to get overwhelming, distracting himself had been relatively easy. He had conjured up this idea of his cat being the catch-all to combat his discomfort. If ever emotions started to creep into uncomfortable territory it was simple to sidestep them. Elizabeth the 3rd had been… sympathetic enough to make him feel sufficiently comfortable again. Then if necessary he could pick up extended office hours here, a cat project there, an extra glass of wine to ease the transition from overthinking to composure.

The last week, though, has flipped everything he thought he knew on its head.

You’re at the forefront of it, really. You’re special to him in a way no one else is; he’s told you that much already. Even so, he will preface his thoughts with a point that he’d surely be jumping the gun to say he’s in love. He met you barely a week ago. In the moments where he tries his hardest to stop the unemotional part of him from slipping through his fingers, he almost believes (or maybe tries to convince himself) that it must just be that there’s so much happening right now. Sarah, her name bitter on his tongue, seems to have forcefully slithered her way into his life, though he’d rather have never paid her a second glance. There is no reasoning with his father surrounding the absurdity of the arranged marriage and the trust at the foundation of their relationship feels suddenly fragile; unpredictable. Not to mention the impact yet another divorce and planned subsequent remarriage quickly took on business (with Jumin, of course, being left to pick up the slack).

Then, as if things weren’t dire enough, his dear Elizabeth the 3rd is seemingly under threat. He is riddled with both the need to protect and a simultaneous abundance of confusion from the dawning realisation that she could never understand him like he needed. It plays heavy on his heart.

Amongst it all though, here you are—a pillar of light in the chaos. Someone who cares about him with a deep sincerity and understanding he thought he could have never pulled from the depths of another human. Someone who might just care about him in a way that not even Rika had. He’s considered informing you that it makes him feel terribly vulnerable. As though you’re cradling his heart in uncertain hands.

Still, Jumin keeps assuring himself that things will fall back into place. They always do. Things will fall into their rightful place, and life will return to what he is accustomed to.

…Then again.

What if he doesn't want it to go back to how it was before? What if this is a rare occasion where he welcomes a sudden change with open arms? An open heart? (It’s okay if hands shake as you hold it, he thinks. Be it his hands or yours.)

Because it just doesn’t feel right to tuck you away with everything else in his brain the way he’s used to. You’re too different. It comes too easy to ignore everything else for you. Thoughts of you are spread all around in an uneven jumble; disorganised, distracting. From his stares alone it’s impossible for you to begin to visualise the scramble. He feels like he’s been ripped from safety and comfort and thrown as far from familiarity as possible. He has never been so out of his depth. He has never, even as a child, felt so out of control.

Part of him, strangely, welcomes it.

It makes him think unusually, however. Perhaps even unfairly. And so along with the scattered joy of you, you, you, develops an internal battle to gain control again. He wants your eyes on only him as much as he wants no one else to look at you. Something pleads with him to keep you here, keep you here, while something else begs him on its knees to never hold you back.

He’s watching you, sitting with your legs tucked up beneath you on his sofa. You’ve been quietly focused on some drama he’s never heard of and sipping a vintage wine he’d been saving for a special occasion. It makes him dizzy. Perhaps against his better judgement, he has wanted to kiss you since you walked through the door. A special occasion indeed.

The pleading continues, desperate screams of No matter what it takes! No matter what it takes!

But you have been so kind. He wouldn’t dare take advantage of it. On the contrary, he’d probably do anything you asked of him in a heartbeat as long as he could guarantee you’d be safe in the end.

Then he says your name. He’s not sure he intended to say it aloud. When you turn to him he scans your face for something, anything, that suggests maybe you’re losing your mind as much as he is. Instead he’s distracted by lips gently parted and vaguely stained red from the wine, and comes to no conclusion.

“Yeah?” you say.

You’re sitting in the spot where he’d usually sit, he realises. He’d been so shaken by your arrival that he somehow hadn’t even noticed. Not that he’d have made you sit elsewhere anyway.

He takes a sip of his own wine and wonders if his lips are the same colour as yours.

“Jumin? Everything okay?”

You seem too far away somehow.

“Yes.”

You tilt your head to the side slightly as you ask, “You sure?”

“Yes. Apologies, what I was going to say somehow slipped my mind,” he says.

“Alright.” Your eyes sparkle as you smile (always sweet, never pushy) and he has to turn away to stop himself from acting on foolish impulse.

He downs the rest of his wine in lieu of it.

[nonstandardrepertoire]

as a Jewish transsexual, the Jewish ethno-nationalist¹ sales pitch has always left me cold.² over and over again, i've heard people plugging the State of Israel offer some form of the following: "history teaches that we can never fully trust non-Jews with political power to protect Jews; the only way to make sure Jewish people are always safe is to create and maintain a state where Jewish people have the political power, so we can look out for ourselves"

but the thing is, the worst transphobic harassment i've experienced in my life has come from Jews. i don't think this says anything about the relative transphobia of Jews vs non-Jews, anymore than the fact that most of my birthday presents come from New Yorkers says anything about the relative generosity of Californians, but still. the people who followed me out of the subway filming me while yelling transphobic abuse were Jewish. two of the most relentless boosters of the current wave of transphobia in the US — Ben Shapiro and Chaya Raichik — are Jewish. i should be safe in a state run by such people?

and the obvious response is to say that, well, this is about keeping me safe as a Jew, not necessarily as an anything else. it's a bulwark against anti-Jewish violence, not every other -ism under the sun.³ but the thing is, i'm not a potato-head person. you can't just snap off the trans part of me and the Jewish part of me and say the latter part is safe even when the first isn't. i'm 100% Jewish and 100% trans; if i'm not safe as a transsexual, i'm not safe as a Jew. and if i'm going to be having to fight transphobia anyway, what difference does it make if the people passing bills stripping my rights are Jews or not?⁴

if you really lean into the logic at play here — "no one outside a vulnerable demographic can be trusted to care about people in that demographic" — it's easy to wind up in absurdity. because if i can't trust goyim to have my back as a Jew and also can't trust cis people to have my back as a transsexual, perhaps i need a state run by and for Jewish transsexuals. but wait! white Jewish transsexuals are certainly regularly horrible to, eg, Black Jewish transsexuals, so we probably shouldn't be in the same state together, to say nothing of separating out the poor, the disabled, those without college degrees . . . and before you know it, you're committed to the idea that the only just world is one where we're each a state unto ourselves, perfectly safe in absolute isolation from one another — no society, no coming together across difference to lighten the burden of living, just infinite atomization, the perfect unending unwinnable war of all against all

and this, i think, reveals the fundamental futility of the project. as a transsexual, i don't think my safety will ultimately come from removing myself from people not like me. safety, i think, comes not from cutting ties, but from building them. i will only really be safe in a society that accepts difference, multiplicity, strangeness, variety. i will only be truly safe in a society where we come together — across the gulfs that separate us — to take care of one another

i think there are illuminating parallels with feminist/lesbian separatism here. in its most extreme versions, such separatism abandons the demand that women be safe around men and instead attempts the task of building a space without men for women to inhabit. similarly, it seems to me that Jewish ethno-nationalism abandons the demand that Jewish people be safe around goyim and instead attempts to build a space without goyim for Jewish people to inhabit.⁵ i think Jews can and must be safe among goyim. i think women can and must be safe among men. i think trans people can and must be safe among cis people. that is the kind of world i am committed to fighting for, not one where we give in to fear and retreat into gardens walled by suspicion and hostility⁶

i'm not going to pretend that that's an easy world to build.⁷ i'm not going to pretend i can point to a bunch of stable, just, pluralistic societies and go "eh, just do what they did!" (altho there's no shortage of societies i can point to that went the "this place is for us and only us" route and wound up producing dystopian nightmares⁸). i'm not even going to pretend that i think building a just world from where we are now is inevitable, or even that i always think it is possible. there are days it is very hard to believe. but i always think it's worth striving for. if a just world that guarantees a good life to all isn't worth striving for, what is? if we are to suffer defeat, let it be a slow defeat, a long defeat, a fighting defeat. i am not willing to give up on my neighbors. i am not willing to abandon the charge of seeking the good for those not like me. i am not willing to abandon the hope that will seek the good for me despite my strangeness to them. and i reject any philosophy or politics that asks me to do so

_________________________________________________

¹i'm using "Jewish ethno-nationalist" here because i think it's been subject to less semantic dilution than "Zionist", and i want to avoid semantic arguments here as much as possible. whatever prescriptivist arguments you want to marshal that this or that term should mean X, i think it's clear that the descriptivist ship has long since set sail when it comes to "Zionism". (when pushed for specifics, i've seen self-professed Zionists and anti-Zionists outline essentially identical political programs, which certainly makes it seem to me that these terms are of minimal utility at best)

²obviously, what's happening on the ground is very bad. but critiquing what's happening on the ground often runs into severe questions of evidential reliability and can also leave the impression that Jewish ethno-nationalism is a good idea implemented badly, which is why i want to take aim at this level here

³given the European origins of this movement in its modern incarnation, i think it's unsurprising who gets imagined as "just a Jew" and not any other marked category. and from there, i think it's also unsurprising (if depressing) how various Jews who do exist in other marked categories have been and are treated by the "Jewish State" — the promised safety turns out to be predicated on all the usual axes of whiteness, wealth, ability, and so on

⁴indeed, i have often found that groups predicated on the idea that "we're all in alignment here" are often much more resistant to acknowledging members' various bigotries than groups not predicated on that assumption

⁵and, similarly, this attempt to cleave the world along one axis of hierarchy invariably reveals the inadequacy of one-identity-only frameworks for tackling the full complexity of the world. among other things, feminist/lesbian separatism has come under sustained critique from Black feminists like Barbara Smith for sundering ties of solidarity that are critical for fighting racism. victimhood and oppression are not fixed, ontological states, but fluid, shifting, contextual relationships. we cannot undo the snarlingly intertwined systems of oppression by replicating them in miniature

⁶the fear is certainly a real emotion; it is one i have felt at times myself. sometimes it is even based on an accurate perception of the world! but also: sometimes not. my fear of kitchen knives spontaneously levitating and flying around the room certainly feels real to me, but it's not a thing that can actually happen. one of the really hard things to do in the world, i've found, is parsing out the fears that are just feelings i'm having from the fears that tell me actual actionable information about the world and then striking a livable balance between reasonable precaution and paranoia. precautions against danger often come with their own set of risks: locking a door to keep out potential thieves ups the odds of being trapped in a building fire; using a different complex password for every site raises the risk of forgetting one and having a critical account shut down; the medications that drastically cut the frequency of debilitating migraines can raise the likelihood of other adverse health effects. more broadly, viewing neighbors with suspicion, fear, and distrust has a corrosive effect on the social fabric, and makes it harder to structure society to make sure everyone has food, clothes, housing, healthcare — all the things a society is supposed to do. (it's hard to convince people to take care of people they're afraid of, especially if they believe (rightly or wrongly) that they will have to give up something they care about (usually money, but also convenience, prestige, power) for that to happen.) and that corrosive effect can get very extreme — when fascism wants to recruit you to its cause, the sales pitch is usually less "hey, do you want to unleash horrific violence against those folks over there?" and more "hey, aren't you tired of being ~afraid~? don't you want to feel ~safe~? isn't it about time you had all the wealth, respect, and power that's rightfully yours and that's been kept from you for so long?". fear isn't the only way that horrors get unleashed, but it's a very potent one. (i don't think there's a formula for striking the right balance here. as with so many balancing acts, too much comes down to context and the specifics of all those involved, not least because the scale and nature of threats can vary so wildly. i believe that everyone deserves to be safe (insofar as any of us mostly hairless apes clinging to a thin crust of dirt on an iron ball whirling thru the cosmic void around a sphere of nuclear fire can be safe from loss, grief, accident, disaster, or misfortune...), but being and feeling are different matters, and pursuing the feeling of safety without limit can easily lead to logics of annihilation.) (and indeed, i am not the first to be struck by the fact that in many ways it is in the interests of the State of Israel, as a state, if Jews feel unsafe in the rest of the world, because that feeling of unsafety is so easily leveraged to both increase political support for the State of Israel and encourage Jewish people to leave the Diaspora and move to the State of Israel. which, unnervingly, is where you sometimes find the State of Israel and its agents taking the position that Jews don't belong anywhere that isn't the immediate environs of Jerusalem, a position that is ultimately indistinguishable from any number of dime-store Judeophobias)

⁷indeed, i think this is one of many places where it's easier to identify the problem than it is to solve it. many middle schoolers can explain the problem of Fermat's Last Theorem; barely a handful of professional mathematicians in the world could explain the proof. my cat can figure out how to break a vase even tho he can't reliably find a toy he's just been playing with when he's sitting directly on top of it (it's fine, he doesn't follow me on here, i can say that about him); in some cases, a skilled artisan can repair the vase so it functions again; no one in the world can turn back time so that the vase was never broken to begin with. it's easy to invent chessboard solutions to entrenched societal conflicts — move this border here, enact this constitution there, change this societal attitude for all involved, and hey presto!, utopia. but the world is not a game of chess. education, advocacy, activism, political organization, even wildcat direct action — these are all slow, effortful, uncertain processes, and everyone with a different vision of the future is also exercising their agency to change the course of events. i think societies are easy to break and hard to repair. in many cases, i don't really know how we go from here, the real world as it actually is with all its shattered bones and aching wounds and long-festering resentments, to there, a world of true justice. but i think it's worth trying. i think it's worth imagining. i hope you do too

⁸like, idk what even to say if "Germany for the Germans" doesn't set off alarm bells. even if they raised up a brand new continent from the ocean floor, i still think i'd be wary of the political project of building a ~Jewish state for the Jews~. i don't trust nationalism of any flavor. i think the Diasporic notion of feeling kinship with and responsibility for people all around the world regardless of borders, flags, kings, bureaucracies is beautiful and worth cherishing and protecting. i don't dream of finally being on top of the hierarchy; i dream of there not being a hierarchy to begin with

[garagepaperback]

resplendent:

Draco had been raised within the macrocosm of good taste. 

The Manor, obviously, was beautiful. From its magnificent Anatolian rugs, textiles in such surplus they sometimes lay stacked two or three deep, to the quiet, pale giants of Tuscan, Doric and Corinthian looming over floors of agarwood or pink ivory. Each wall was imbued with a deliberate moment - linenfold paneling, secret passages, carved English ivy crawling toward the ceiling, rendered in bas relief and enchanted with thick, verdant scent. 

He’d learned that beauty has a strict definition - something is beautiful when it is careful, intentional, immaculate.

And, of course. Potter leaves that marble a rubbled ruin, too.

It’s early enough in the afternoon and the day’s fat with promise, though Draco plans to avoid most of it, hunched over the backlog of a tedious to-do list until the relentless hollering of his own name sullies the open window of the study. 

“What?” Draco snaps, ten minutes later, blinded momentarily in the sun and taking the steps down to the grass two at a time. He squints, eyes adjusting. “I’m already behind on everything I need to do today, and it’s not like your self-assigned garden project has a deadline, the way-” 

The rest of the words reduce to breath, and then that’s gone, too.

Under the cracked open sky, Harry looks up at him, smirk-ready, dirt-smeared on the gleam of his cheekbone. A mess through and through. Between the grimy, huge sleeveless shirt, the age-gnawed denim and the sweat, there’s nothing careful or immaculate about him at all. He’s wrist deep in the earth, using his hands the way he madly insists on doing. It drives Draco wild - and then, in the lowlit belly of night, or early some mornings, or on afternoons exactly like this one it drives him wild again, in an entirely different way. 

“I wanted to show you something,” Harry says, and wipes his sweat-slunk hair out of his eyes with the back of his brown hand, dragged on the brown line of neatly muscled forearm. Every part of him warm, shining. 

It makes the nerves on Draco’s fingers twist up and dream of touch. And how absurd, to dream of something you’ve held and held and held. Will hold, and hold and-

He means the flowers: the loamy altar of daffodils and tiger lilies he’s kneeling before, that he's made, because Potter’s as sensitive with symbolism as a hammer on crème brûlée. It’s an intentional and lovely thing, but at this moment, Draco couldn’t care less about intentionally lovely things.

Potter looks so beautiful even the concept of light is thrown into question - nothing might have ever been this bright, this glowing, this radiant. 

The smirk is full-grown. Harry jerks his chin. 

“Hey. Eyes on the ground, please.”

for day 2 of @microficmay

[kaurwreck]

It would be beautiful if war sprang from nothing. If it was a natural disaster for which no one could be held culpable, if there weren't people pouring into it, bubbling within it, spilling out onto the other side of it. It would be gentle if war's objective meaninglessness rendered it spontaneous, and it would be easier to shake from us if its burr-like roots were just burrs.

But absurdism doesn't abrogate consequences, although approaching absurdity in a Japanese work entirely through Western expression might obfuscate them. It's relevant to Bungou Stray Dogs that modern Japanese writers engaged with absurdity not to replicate Kafka but to explore their post-war observations and criticize complacency through a lens influenced by Kafka.

Which is to say, Bungou Stray Dogs isn't set against a blurred or uncertain backdrop; the details indicating why the Great War happened are unobstructed and plainly present for how grounded in our reality they are. There couldn't be an international port city of Yokohama without the events that caused the Great War. We know what those were, or at least we're capable of knowing.

But if you accept at face value the setting, the military police, the sectionalization of the city, the discordance of Fukuzawa's office, the anachronisms, the superpowers, the names, the characters' theatrics, the art deco architecture, the German cake Naomi eats, the outlandish adversaries and even more outlandish paths to overcoming them— if you abandon any intentionality and adopt the world as absurd and divorced from any familiar reality, without seeking any meaning for the Great War out on your own, then no, I suppose we can't know what caused the Great War.

But once you begin seeking meaning in the antics, digging for reasons where there isn't any exposition, and engaging curiously with the world across its mediums and source material— you still won't find any objectivity, but the world splits open, its edges blur, and it becomes prismatic, nuanced, complicated, malleable, and meaningful. The characters' arcs deepen, and the consequences of their choices jam piercing teeth into the narrative's otherwise fleshy gums.

There isn't any certainty or exactitude to how you can or should apply the context of its other mediums and source material to Bungou Stray Dogs. But the text's absurdity invites you to find meaning where the story cheekily won't offer any outright and rewards you for shedding, rather than ceding to, your complacency.

It's like how Atsushi could have succumbed to his cowardice and allowed himself to wallow helplessly in the wake of his tiger's relentless self-preservation but instead chose to use his ability to protect others. How Kunikida could choose to sink into his romanticism and reject reality, but instead tethers his ideals to discipline. How Dazai, absent any objective difference between good and bad, could have embraced inertia and continued to spiral but chose to act outside his own patterns to save others (and himself) instead.

Anyway, you can decide war is absurd, but if you decide it has no meaning while others imbue it with meaning enough to induce it, you've ceded the page to them and allowed them to write reality. Which is itself a choice. That's enough reason, I think, to chase curiosity and make the choices that might instead be wonderful.

[haggishlyhagging]

For heterosexual couples, procreation and, more specifically, motherhood represent the last realm where, even among progressives, the "Nature" argument, which we have learned to distrust in almost every other circumstance, still calls the shots. We know that, down the centuries, the most bizarre— and most oppressive —theories have been justified by the "obvious and unquestionable" proof apparently furnished by "Nature." For example, in 1879, Gustave Le Bon confirmed that "The brains of many women are closer in size to those of gorillas than to the more developed brains of men. This inferiority is so evident that no one could gainsay it for a moment: only the degree of difference is worth any discussion." With time, the absurdity of this kind of thinking has become abundantly clear. These days, we avoid attributing any particular disposition or specific behavior to any physical feature. In progressive circles, for example, no one will tell gay and lesbian people that their sexual practices are problematic, that they are attracted to the wrong people and that their organs haven't been designed for use in this way; no one would ever venture: "Excuse me, but did you misread the manual? Nature actually says . . . ." And yet, as soon as were on the topic of women and babies, it's a free-for-all: the result is a carnival of biological Freudian banana skins, if I may put it this way. Suddenly you find yourself surrounded by fervent advocates of the very narrowest biological determinism.

They have a uterus: this is the truly irrefutable proof that women ought to have children, right? We appear not to have advanced an inch since the eighteenth century, when the entry for "Femme" ("Woman") in Diderot and d'Alembert's Encyclopedia comprised a description of a woman's physical appearance and the conclusion that "all these facts demonstrate that the purpose of women is to have children and to feed them." We continue to believe unshakeably that women are programmed to want to be mothers. In earlier times, this was put down to the independent volition of their uterus, a "formidable animal," "possessed with the desire to create children," "lively, resistant to reason, working in the interests of fearsome desires to dominate over all." The self-motivating womb has now relinquished its place in the collective imagination to that mysterious organ known as the "biological clock," which no X-ray has yet managed to locate, yet whose relentless ticking is easily detected by putting your ear to the belly of any woman between thirty-five and forty. "We are used to thinking about metaphors like 'the biological clock' as if they were not metaphors at all, but simply neutral descriptions of facts about the human body," observes essayist Moira Weigel. The term "biological clock" was first used to refer to women's fertility in 1978, in a Washington Post article titled "The Clock is Ticking for the Career Woman." In other words, this expression was an early harbinger of the imminent anti-feminist backlash, and its dazzlingly successful integration into the female anatomy makes it a unique phenomenon in the history of evolution—it would have given Darwin pause for thought. Since women's bodies give them the option of carrying a child, of course Nature would prefer that women also change the resulting infant's nappies, once born, that they attend all meetings with pediatricians and, while we're on the subject, that they mop the kitchen floor, do the washing-up and remember to buy loo roll for the next twenty-five years. This is known as "maternal instinct." Yes, Nature orders precisely this, and not, for example, that, in order to thank women for taking on the major task required for perpetuation of the species, society do its best to compensate them for the inconveniences they thereby suffer; nothing of the sort. If you thought that might make sense, you haven't really understood Nature.

-Mona Chollet, In Defense of Witches: The Legacy of the Witch Hunts and Why Women are Still on Trial