Pen of the Thousand Projects

Icky - 18+ - writer of many things - follows from @urocyon

[icky-b]

The Threads of Memory X - The Empty Town

Author's Log 1/3/25 - Now we're writing new chapters - Smut ahoy!

1/2/3/4/5/6/7/8/9/10/11/12/13/14/15/16/17/18/19/20/21/22/23/24/25/26/27/28/29/30

    The shop doorbell rang and Gale entered the cluttered little gallery.  Curios crowded the shelves, and old furniture stacked nearly to the ceiling obscured the counter at the back of the store.  An oil lamp burned beside the open ledger.

    “Be with you in a minute!” a woman’s voice chimed, followed by a muffled curse and stone-on-wood clatter from the back room.

    “No hurry!” Gale called back, brushing his fingers across tarnished silver goblets and platters stacked on a shelf at eye level.  One of the goblets buzzed with an enchantment meant to identify poison.  He turned it over in his hand, and the orb lashed for it.

    A redheaded dwarven woman hauled an unwieldy bag out of the back, the object inside churning mechanically.  She heaved it onto the counter with a huff and shoved her curls back from her face to study Gale.

    “Why hello stranger,” she grabbed the bag before it worked itself off the counter, “what can I do for you?”

    “On the hunt for some old enchantments,” Gale launched into his prepared excuse, “I’ve a project that requires a steady supply of weave, but I’d prefer to reuse than create.  Seems you may have what I need.”

    “Sure do,” the bag writhed under her firm hand, “I don’t recognize you, new to Reddenhyde are you?”

    “In a sense,” Gale admitted, “I’m staying at Willowdarn.”

    “Willowdarn?” the bag clattered its way off the table and she cursed, scrambling out from behind the counter to haul it back up again, “no one up that way for the last fifteen years, save Shur.  What brought you back after so long?  Assuming you are a Halavar, that is, and not some taxman come to redistribute the property,” she cleared her throat and extended her hand to Gale, “Where are my manners.  Adella, Adella Braugh, a pleasure to meet you…”

    “Gale of Waterdeep, a pleasure Ms. Braugh,” Gale shook her hand firmly, “what do you have there?”

    “Ah,” she shook the thing out of the bag and a basalt and copper construct clattered onto the counter.  It righted itself and attempted to walk off, but she pinned it, “I found this out at the ruins.  Seen a number of broken and dead ones out there, but this is the first that works.”

   “Ruins?” Gale echoed, excitement bleeding into his voice. The construct waved its stiff limbs and left scratches in the wooden counter, “this is a Netherese constructor, where on earth did you get it?”

    Adella’s face lit up.  “You know, then?  Are you an archaeologist?  A wizard?  What do you take it for?”

    Gale smoothed his beard.  “Both, I used to study this very thing -- well, my research was on the epic of Ortenkus, not Netherese construction methods specifically -- but I digress.  Let me see it,” Gale approached the counter and caught the constructor before it toppled off.  The magic bonds sparked between the stone joints.  He sent a pulse of high frequency weave through the body, and it stilled so he could turn it over and study the carved runework on the bottom, “Ah, I see.”

    “What?” Adella stood on her tiptoes to see.

    “This is a rune carver, meant for small spaces such as ventilation shafts and sewer pipes,” he tapped the ends of the hands, “there’s a spidercrawl spell in the legs.  If you were to let it go, it would scale the opposite wall.”

    “How’d you turn it off?” Adella moved one of the legs back and forth, the magical bonds holding the construct together stretched.

    “A simple counterspell,” Gale traced the runework on the underside, “you see these symbols here?  They list the frequencies of weave the construct operates on in Lorossian notation.  All it takes is a pulse of magic at the right frequency to disable it -- easily done even by the least skilled among us.”

    “Wait, can you read Loross?” Adella heaved the construct into her arms and set it on the floor to see better, “because I’ve got this pet project I’ve been working on, but it’s hard to get good translation guides out here.  There’s a -- well,” she stopped herself, tucking the constructor against the side of the counter, “Mr. ‘Of Waterdeep’, can I trust you with a remarkable research opportunity?”

    Gale rested his elbow on the counter, picking the enchanted goblet up and gesturing with it as though it was full of wine. “I would be delighted to assist you.”

    “The ruins of a Netherese enclave, out on the moorlands,” Adella nodded towards the back, “It’s tricky to get to, kind of picked over to build the town, but there’s plenty to dig up.  Based on my mapping of the ley lines in the area, I think the Mythallar is still buried in the mud.  Of course, there’s no digging until the summer thaw, but I have notes and artifacts and maps that could use an expert eye.”

    Gale’s eyes widened, a grin splitting his face.  “An enclave?  Here?  Which one -- do you know?  And the Mythallar --” he laughed, “Mystra, what a gift!  And here I thought I’d succumb to boredom.”

    “That’s not all,” Adella wagged her finger at him, “hold on, let me grab something.”

    She moved fast for her size, vanishing behind a thick hide curtain and emerging with a worn journal.  She handed it to Gale, and he turned the dog-eared pages delicately.

    “That dates to the last abandonment of Reddenhyde,” she explained, “I think the proximity of the enclave ruins have something to do with it.”

    “What do you mean?” Gale asked, scanning the entries quickly.  The author described a gradual decline of the town and anomalous occurrences, like finding fresh food in the pantries of houses he remembered being abandoned years ago.

    “Well, the story goes that about 150 years back Jan Reddenhyde was leading a group of lost pioneers from Everlund and heard about a reclusive lord’s manor where they might replenish their supplies,” Adella began.

    “The lord of Willowdarn, no doubt,” Gale muttered mostly to himself.

    She nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly that, the folks at Willowdarn seem to be the only ones spared of the phenomenon.  But Yan Reddenhyde rolled into town and discovered it empty.  No one in the houses, doors left open, food still in the pantry, fires still lit.  With no other option, he thanked the gods and moved himself and his entourage into the empty town.  The story goes that he never made it to Willowdarn, and seemed to forget the place existed at all within days of settling in.”

    Gale’s brow furrowed.  “This is the journal of Yan Reddenhyde?”

    “It is,” Adella said, “my father was his record keeper, and when Yan threw it out, he kept it.  Thought we needed help to remember the story of how this place came to be, since everyone forgot so quickly.  If you ask anyone, they’ll tell you we’ve been here forever.  It has to be an effect of the Mythallar, doesn't it?”

    “Perhaps,” Gale admitted, “it’s worth investigating.  Have you brought this to the attention of the local authorities?  The mayor, perhaps?”

    She shook her head.  “No one’s interested, and the mayor made for Everlund ages ago and hasn't been back since.  His son Kenneth’s been holding it all together.”

    The orb sent an insistent shock of pain throbbing up Gale’s neck.  He cleared his throat.  “Politicians are infamously lacking in curiosity.  My apologies, I must cut our time short.  Pressing business back at the manor.  What do I owe you for this?” He held up the goblet.

    “A promise to return when you can,” Adella said, “and the use of your expertise in Loross later.”

    Gale clutched the goblet to his chest, backing out of the cramped shop.  “You are terribly kind.  I promise you both at my earliest convenience.”

    The sound of Gale’s footsteps on the cobbled street insulted the blanket of silence smothering Reddenhyde.  The gray sky above him threatened more snow, merging with the gray stone of the buildings and gray moors beyond.  Pilgrim stomped his foot where he was tied on the main street as he saw Gale.  His haunches shivered with cold, despite the riding blanket.  Gale caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned, watching a stray cat slip from an alley between the abandoned surgery and a darkened shopfront and into a storm grate.  The only other living thing on the road.  The cold pressed into his bones, and he mounted Pilgrim.

    The horse needed no urging from Gale, throwing his head in relief as he trotted down the main road towards home.  His tail flicked anxiously, and he only settled when the town receded from view.

    The manor rose above the moors, a hulk of black stone against the unending gray.  It radiated malice, but Pilgrim did a little prance of joy when it came into view over the crest of the hill.  The horse broke into a quick trot on the frozen road cutting between pools of stagnant peat.  White smoke rose in pillars from the chimneys until it joined the gray sky.  

    Pilgrim’s rough trot sent jolts of pain through Gale’s body, and he pulled back on the reins until the horse reluctantly slowed.  He swallowed around the seething knot in his chest, hands trembling as he dug in his pockets for the chalice.  He bent over Pilgrim’s back as he consumed it so he didn’t fall off when the magic overwhelmed him.  It surged into his chest, vision blurring.  He panted, a metallic taste sticking to the back of his throat with each breath.  He swallowed, straightened, and let Pilgrim continue along.  By the time he sent Pilgrim on his way back to the stable, his breathing had begun to slow.

    Marla’s voice echoed through the foyer, still slurred with sedation.  Gale caught her and Kenneth speaking with Velim on the stairs, Marla holding herself tensely upright.  She nodded to Gale, but never met his eyes as she passed him to wait alone in the cold with her bundle.  Gale mirrored her polite greeting, and massaged at the ache still roiling in his chest.  Kenneth remained on the stair with Velim, and Gale waited in the vestibule.

    “Where is the well?” Velim asked, their voice low and only made audible by the acoustics of the stairs.

    “In a sycamore grove to the northeast,” Kenneth said, “why do you want to know?”

    “Two different malformations in a population as small as Reddenhyde, even if the town were booming, is unusual.  I’d like to take a look at the site associated, perhaps see if your previous doctor left any information regarding the cause in the surgery, if you’re amenable,” Velim explained.

    “Anytime,” Kenneth replied, “you’re always welcome in our home, doctor.  Stop by anytime.”

    Kenneth greeted Gale, shaking his hand on his way out the door.  A final cold draft slipped into the manor as the heavy door closed after him. Velim flipped their braid over one shoulder as Gale joined them on the landing.

    “How’s Marla fairing?” The orb flared when Velim passed him too closely.  He pressed his knuckles against the hollow of his throat to relieve the pressure.

    “As well as can be expected.  Mourning, in pain, exhausted, but she’ll live.  She’s lucky to have Kenneth.” Velim eyed his chest.

    “The deformities?” Gale prompted.

    The corner of Velim’s mouth quirked up.  “Birth defects that severe occur naturally once per a million or so births.  Two per generation is a staggering rate for such a small community. Warrants additional investigation.  Did you happen to stop at the surgery while you were in town?”

    “No,” Gale chuckled, “I’m afraid I got waylaid by the proprietor of a delightful oddities shop, the daughter of the original recordkeeper for Reddenhyde.  It seems she’s been excavating the local ruins, and based on some of the relics she’s uncovered I’m inclined to believe her claims.”

    “And she handed that information to you?” Velim raised an eyebrow.

    “I imagine she was thrilled to find someone with my credentials in such a backwater.” Gale attempted to puff out his chest, but the orb forced his shoulders inward once more.

    “Or equally thrilled she’s discovered a mark she can lure into the wilderness and rob,” Velim countered.

    “Worry not,” Gale snapped his fingers and produced a small flame, “any would-be robbers are certain to meet their fiery demise at my hand.”

    Velim smiled tiredly.  “You'll have to introduce me later, I'd like a look at the birth and death records.” They slipped into their bedroom before he could respond, closing the door behind them.

     Snow muffled the rattling of the willows, a gust of wind passing over Velim as they cupped their hands close to their face and breathed into their palms.  The close sky reflected the light and cast the creek in velvet grays.  Snow clung to their lashes, melting slow as they shifted from one foot to the other and waited for the trembling adrenaline to clear their system.  When their fingertips began to ache, they turned around and began walking back around to the front door.

     They picked apart the details of tonight's dream.  Strapped to the operating table -- same thick leather straps and chafing pressure, then nothing.  No surgeon above them, no beloved face or knife or blood.  A fluttering of eyes, partial consciousness, and a sick sense of dread.

     They shivered as they entered the manor, shaking the snow off the shoulders of their coat and kicking their boots off haphazardly.  They padded through the dark on slippered feet, rubbing their cold hands together.  When they turned the corner, they nearly collided with Gale.

     He yelped and dropped the candlestick, the flame sputtering out.  He leaned against the wall and clutched his chest, as though his hand could block the pulsating glow.  “Velim!” he panted, voice thin, “I wasn’t expecting you.”

     Velim picked up the candle and lit it with a flourish of their hand.  Gale whimpered, the weave surging forth from his chest and washing over Velim like heat from an oven.  They stepped back.

     “Gale, are you okay?” They strangled their fear and stepped into the cloud of volatile magic.  It tugged at their scales as they swung his arm over their shoulders and guided him back into the master bedroom.

     Sweat stuck Gale’s hair to his forehead, his skin glistening in the firelight as Velim put him down on the sofa mid-incoherent explanation.  They let him mumble while they tore through the chest at the foot of his bed for the enchanted objects he’d brought.  The blistering heat of magic clouded their senses.  The box was empty.

     Velim leaned over the back of the couch and held his hand.  “I’m going to see if I can find something in the other bedrooms.  Hold on.”

     Gale squeezed their hand, his chest heaving against the increasing pressure.

     Velim slipped into the hallway and stopped in the open door of each bedroom, reaching for the slightest hint of magic.  They felt a glimmer tucked away in a desk in an unused room, coated in a thick layer of dust.  The ring, set with a pink diamond and pearls, radiated the warm sunlit glow of a warding bond.  A wedding ring -- but this was no time for sentimentality.

     Velim pressed the ring into Gale’s palm.  The gold band eroded, pearls blackening and diamond centerpiece spiderweb cracking like glass.  The glitter of inert dust slipped between Gale’s fingers, the sliver of weave devoured.  The magic lashing from Gale’s heart blistered Velim’s skin as it sought something more substantial.

     “You need to leave,” Gale choked around the expanding force crushing his lungs.

     Velim chewed their lip, looking towards the door of the bedroom and back at Gale.  He gazed up at them, tears welling up in his eyes.  They dashed away.  He closed his eyes with a sob, curling in toward the pain like he might smother it.  He didn’t hear Velim return, the weight of their hand on his shoulder barely there against the pressure building inside him as they shoved him against the back of the couch.  Their frigid hands opened the collar of his shirt.  He groaned through his teeth at the small relief, the pressure shifting as they pressed the pad of their thumb hard to the center of the orb’s circular scar.

     Velim gripped the lancet in their teeth, concentrating all the magic they could muster into the bleeding point on their thumb.  The orb siphoned them away, a strange cold wind drawing out of their hand.  The room around them swam.  They straddled Gale’s hips, letting his body hold them up as they fed the parasite.  

     Draconic weave coiled around the orb, the roar of it loud in Gale’s ears.  It left an antiseptic taste at the back of his throat.  He whined, the sound pulled up from deep inside between panting gasps.  

     Velim cupped his face as the magic abated, thumb rolling down his slackening jaw until they felt his pulse flutter.  Relief washed over him, the firelight casting him in warm profile.  The world closed in on Velim’s mind, and they pulled their thumb away and stopped the magic current.  The connection broke with a cold crackle of energy.

     Gale’s face settled, his lashes fluttering.  Velim shifted their legs, shoulders slumping as their hand slid down his chest and settled over the warm thrum of his heart.  The world softened, caught between Gale’s body and the fire at their back.  Something pressed between their legs.  They braced themself on the back of the sofa, studying the changing shadows on Gale’s face in the firelight.  Everything past him faded, a velvet dark blur at the edges of their awareness.  The orb pulsed quietly, fat and satisfied.

     Color flushed back into Gale’s cheeks.  They wiped the sweat beading on his brow away with their sleeve, hips shifting, and realized what must be pressing between their legs.  They stepped off, swaying unsteadily in front of the coffee table.  Gale blinked, his eyes still turned skyward, lips slightly parted.

     Velim muttered a goodnight and staggered out of the room, closing his door and then their’s behind them.  They slid down the wood to sit in the soft dark of their bedroom.  They reached for the sources of magic they knew were there, the bag of holding in their coat and the circuits embedded in the walls, but they returned only a dim hum.  Velim's head fell back against the door, wondering at a world without sharp edges.

     Gale’s world resolved in the chill of sweat cooling on his skin.  He touched the circular scar, his fingers coming back smeared with blood.  His chest rose and fell as he sucked air back into his oxygen starved body, awareness flooding back into his limbs and core in the absence of the unmanageable pressure.  A different pressure materialized, straining against his trousers and twisting in his abdomen.

     Gale listened for Velim, their hands long gone though the memory lingered on his skin.  He pulled himself free of the waistband of his trousers.  His length twitched, awake and needy with no regard for the ordeal -- pain forgotten as Velim’s gold-flecked eyes settled on his mind.  The memory of their hand firm at his throat egged him on as his grip tightened.  The orb purred, glutted on draconic weave.

     His head lolled back, eyes fluttering closed as he surrendered to the sensation.  One last pressure to relieve.  Velim came to mind again, and he scolded himself, but they stubbornly remained.  The warmth of them on his body, breath on his face and cold hands on his chest, the little shift of their hips as they straddled him.  The way they folded into him against the cold in the warehouse, voice a hoarse whisper begging him. 

     Please, please.

     The groan ripped from his throat when he came, and he clamped his free hand over his mouth.  His hips bucked up, spend fountaining up and landing on his thighs where it soaked hot into his trousers.  He panted, disgusted with himself, and cleaned up with a trembling wave of his hand.  The whisper of magic sapped all that remained of the heat.

[icky-b]

I was going to update Ch5 of Dogstar today, but alas it seems Ao3 is having some problems.

[spiritbladed]

something something extremely sexy when magic users resort to physical violence. yeah i have the power of god and anime on my side but i also have THESE HANDS. i cast Punch You In The Face. i take my magic staff through which i channel the vast energies of the elements and the cosmos and i cast Severe Concussion And Skull Fracture. casting time for xenoglossy too long, chose the quicker route of Stab You In The Throat.

[bovid-beauty]

"Fascism"—New Federal Rule Would Require Federal Funding Recipients To Deny Trans People Exist

The rule could have heavy impacts towards trans people across society.

Last week, the Trump administration quietly released a sweeping new federal rule that would use funding threats to force institutions across the country to reject transgender people. The 400-page proposed regulation would codify the administration's anti-trans executive orders into binding federal policy, imposing a blanket prohibition on federal funds going toward "gender ideology"

The proposed rule, formally titled "Regulation for Federal Financial Assistance," rewrites the government-wide framework governing all federal grants across every agency. Among its most consequential provisions, it requires that before a federal grant recipient can receive money, the award must pass a "pre-issuance review" conducted by a political appointee—not a career expert or peer reviewer—to ensure it is "consistent with applicable law, Federal agency priorities, and the national interest." The regulation explicitly instructs these appointees to screen for "denial by the recipient of the sex binary in humans or the notion that sex is a chosen or mutable characteristic." [...] An institution that acknowledges transgender people exist—through its policies, its training, its healthcare, its bathroom access, its HR procedures, its name-change processes—could be deemed to "deny the sex binary" or to “support the notion that sex is mutable” and have its federal funding blocked.

Importantly, the gender ideology prohibition has no age limitation—hospitals could be targeted not just for providing care to minors but for providing gender-affirming care to adults, because prescribing hormone therapy to a transgender patient of any age could be deemed promoting the belief that "sex is a chosen or mutable characteristic."

[junequeer]

THIS IS OPEN TO COMMENT UNTIL JULY 13, 2026

[featherandstorm]

This is all very bad and horrible, but I want to be clear that it’s worse and more sweeping than just eliminating trans research.

This torches everything. And I do mean everything.

A very abbreviated list of its ramifications include (but are not limited to):

ending funding for ALL DEI related initiatives

allowing the government to terminate grants at any point for any reason

preventing researchers from publishing, going to conferences, and being part of academic societies

requiring that topics must support the president’s agenda.

What this means, and if anything I’m under selling it, is the death of science and research in America. It allows the government to restrict any topic they please at a whims notice, putting officials who have no background in the topic in charge of deciding funding continuity. It controls what gets researched and if/how researchers are allowed to share their discoveries. There are no books to burn if the government never allows them to be written. This is fascism plain and simple.

Please, if you only ever write one public comment, this is the one to do.

[genderkoolaid]

Bringing back this guide to writing an effective public comment. This gives you the basics you need to know, what you need to include, a basic outline you can follow, etc.

Public comments are not a vote, it is a chance for you to say "here is an issue with this law I think you need to address" and provide justification for legal challenges if it goes forward:

"Comments raise the bar that agencies have to meet when making a rule; “if an agency fails to adequately respond to significant, relevant comments in a final rule, members of the public may seek to challenge the rule in court on that basis and claim it could be struck down.ˮ"

But also, if possible, don't stop at writing a comment. Don't stop at calling your representatives. You should ideally be talking to people in your community about this and organizing resistance on-the-ground; there is a good chance people are already doing that even if you aren't hearing about it.

[cherrispryte]

Some added 101-level context from someone (me) who’s worked in federal grantmaking for 20 years and is literally certified on this document - this is a document that governs all federal grantmaking. It’s been around for over a decade and is a mega-document that combine multiple previous smaller documents that have been around for ages. It is updated every few years and generally the updates are minor - a notable change in the previous update was raising the small procurement threshold from $10,000 to $15,000 for example. Deeply dry boring minutiae that no one outside of federal grantmakers need concern themselves with. It was also federal GUIDELINES, which means there was flexibility.

This year’s is different. They are now federal REQUIREMENTS, which means there’s no flexibility. As was said previously, the 400 pages are not singularly devoted to being absolute shitheads to trans people. Theres a lot of stuff in there, some of which is the standard dry boring grants stuff, some of which is the horrible ideological warfare outlined above.

This document is issued by the OMB, the Office of Management and Budget, which is currently lead by fucking Russell Vought, the principal architect of Project 2025. This is how they’re going to implement all the horrible shit in there that wasn’t covered by Executive Order. Russell Vought is actively coming for my job, my marriage, and my kid, and most of my friends lost their jobs last year because of him. He is the fucking arch villain behind the heinous shit the current regime is doing.

So yes, please comment. You don’t have to read all 400 pages before doing so, it’s dry and dense as fuck, but I thought this information might be helpful. Also, while there is a public comment period, this isn’t voted on by Congress. The OMB just fucking issues it. Pressuring your elected officials into publicly saying “hey what the fuck are you doing here” is good, though.

[mikkeneko]

Please note the comment period is open through JULY 13th, not JUNE 13th. I saw a lot of relogs yesterday saying "last day!" and I just want to say it is very much not too late.

[grison-in-space]

As of today, 7/8/26, we have five days for public commentary on this to go through. I am begging y'all: if you care about independent science in the country that produces the most global science funding in the world, please leave a comment.

[icky-b]

Why on earth is threads the place to be on the internet. stupid.

[the-punforgiven]

I'm just saying, if you're going to worldbuild magic being a "raw, primal force, akin to and interweaving with nature itself" you gotta explain to me why animals don't use it

[the-punforgiven]

I know the normal answer is "they just aren't smart enough for it" but idk I've seen enough media where a character uses a spell in a moment of brain-off panic ilI feel like animals could probably stumble into a spell or two like, accidentally

[icky-b]

A true magician knows to look to the teachers.

The creatures of the earth, sky, and waters were never separated from the source. Separation is man's curse to bear. A man must study to learn what the fox already knows: a wall is not a wall if you can see a way through. The salmon knows the way around the world and home again, but a man must use a compass. The crow and the mynah bird know the secrets of many voices, but a man must stutter through his own tongue.

I ask the hyena what it knows. It cackles, and tells me to ask the dog with wide awful eyes. It bears its teeth at me.

The dog knows what I know, it says to me, back hunched.

I have asked the dog what she knows. The dog knows how to move unseen beneath our feet, how to set a warded perimeter, how to find a man lost for a thousand days and bring him home. The dog showed me how to charm others with a look, to engender pity and adoration in the eyes of strangers. The dog shared all of this willingly, offering her belly the whole time.

"I wish to know what you know," I say to the hyena, though my voice trembles. All the voices I have learned from the crows shudder in the wake of this teacher.

Saliva drips from her laughing maw. In the dark, others have begun to circle. I hear them giggling at me, at my predicament, at my questions. I don't know how to ask for the knowledge I want, as fearsome as my desire is.

What do I know that the dog does not? It asks me. I can see its penis between its massive forepaws. Each of its compatriots has one just like it, even the pups, yet the pups still exist.

"How to make a body," I say, "I wish to make my body. Can you show me?"

You ask for bone and tooth secrets, it stares into me, overcoming flesh. All things with teeth know this.

"Not as you do." I kneel before the teacher. I can hear the pack's paws on the scrubby ground.

You will not like my answer. It cackles, and the others do too, kinder to devour you here, gnaw your bones for our own.

I press my palms into the dusty ground. "Any pain, any means."

The pack fades away as the teacher accepts my sincerity. Bloody drool drips from her teeth.

I shall tell you. Our ways are bone and tooth, and you will taste the blood of your own flesh, but it will be yours, student. Your body shall be yours.

[bk-poetry]

Announcing Fanfiction.lol !

hey all! i've built a new ao3 fork called fanfiction.lol 🤙🏽 key differences:

🚫 no invite queue: sign up and start posting immediately. no waiting, no velvet rope.

🏳️‍🌈 expanded content warnings: added ableism, homophobia/transphobia, racism, rpf and more. plus relationship tags for aro/ace spectrum, qpr, non-binary/genderqueer focus, poly/ensemble, and more.

🏷️ all tags are canonical: everything you tag goes into the searchable record. no volunteer wrangling bottleneck.

💜 fandom-agnostic moderation: i care about the writing, not fandom politics or discourse. write whatever you want, tag it honestly.

it's a small personal project but fan communities deserve independent infrastructure.

if you enjoy fandom, i'd love for you to sign up and poke around. tell me what breaks. the source code is at source.tube/brennan/fanfiction.lol.

find me at brennan.day/accounts or email [email protected].

write whatever the hell you want! 💜

[bk-poetry]

More Information

Hi, I wanted to add some more info about fanfic.lol based on some replies. I was trying to keep the original post short and have done write-ups elsewhere but I'll reiterate here.

The admin/webmaster: I'm Brennan! I'm a Queer Red River Métis writer and webdev and huge advocate for the IndieWeb. You can get to know to me on my site, brennan.day

I made this for fun, and it's running using a homelab server in my basement. I don't make money or anything else. I'm just doing it for the love of ball.

fanfic.lol is meant to be a small, independent alternative for fanfic and fandom that prioritizes joy and fun. No aims at trying to replace AO3!

I am anti-genAI and so is the site. You can read more about my stance on AI here.

Archive warnings, like everything else, are under construction! I do have to adhere to the laws of my country (Canada). Please be patient.

I am pushing straight to production, which is to say the entire site could explode at anytime, so please do not use it as the only place you put things! :)

I forsee only a handful of people using this site, it def isn't for everyone. If you don't like it that's okay! Whether you want to give me input or just ignore it entirely.

I did a longer write-up here. Thank you everyone for the kind, warm reception of my silly little project. <3

[olderthannetfic]

I love the longer write-up. It gives me a much better sense of where you're coming from and why people should trust you—or which users would be a good fit.

I was there for the start of AO3, and we really did think we were going to usher in the next age of archives a la eFiction. It took too long for AO3's code to be in that kind of shape and the internet changed radically around us. We did not mean to create a behemoth. We just wanted venture capital bros to stop disrespecting us.

As a side note, all the comments you're getting like "There already is a fanfiction website. Wtf" are exactly what people said about AO3/OTW in 2007. There was a ton of bitching about us stealing FFN's idea. (Never mind that there were older archives.) There were frequent complaints about how there was already "an archive" and we didn't need another. Most of that discussion got deleted when FFN decided to nuke all of its inactive social spaces one Thanksgiving weekend while nobody was around to object or save their data. But I was there and I remember it and it sounded exactly like these comments now.

The oldschool core of AO3 was into the age of archives. We liked there being lots of different little spaces run by different fans. It's nice to see that energy floating around in 2026. Go indieweb!

I wish you a hundred invested users who want to form a community and nobody else.

[positivelyqueer]

”I have this artistic idea but not the skills to achieve it to the standard I want.”

congrats! Now you have a motif! A recurring theme! A focus for your art! Something to haunt you!

Seventeen still lives of dandelions? Three hundred poems about grief? A sketchbook dedicated to your grandmother’s house? Two books trying to unravel the complexities of familial relationships?

Don’t let the fear of it not being perfect on the first try stop you from being Weird About It!

[jaseroque]

Please view Hokusai's gradual working towards The Great Wave Off Kanagawa, over a period of 39 years.

An early exploration of the themes Hokusai would keep coming back to is Spring in Enoshima, done in 1793 when he was 33. The wave is small and there are no boats, but Mt Fuji is clear in the background, and Enoshima is in Kanagawa, so we are clearly beginning to work towards something here.

A second pass, eleven years later in 1803 when he was 44. The title of this one begins to get more familiar: The View of Honmoku Off Kanazawa. It has a towering wave over a smaller boat, but Mt Fuji is not present, and the boat is considerably larger and has a sail. But the feeling of danger in the wave and the smallness of the boat are here, and of course the general composition is definitely recognizable.

This is A View Of Express Delivery Boats, done in 1805, merely two years later at age 46. Here we find the wave and the boats almost exactly as we'll find them in The Great Wave Off Kanagawa, though Mt Fuji isn't present, and the location is uncertain. And it's a good picture! The wave is threatening, the boats are small -- but the feeling of "ocean" isn't really there yet, is it? It's unlikely this picture would have become a classic for the ages. But that's okay, there's still time.

And here we have it, a full 26 years later, done by Hokusai in 1831 at the age of 72. The Great Wave Off Kanagawa, one of the most recognizable pieces of art in the world. The boats are there, the mountain is there, the wave is there, and the FEELING is there. He did it! He reached the apex of his ongoing motif and theme!

Or did he? Because the whole point of a motif is not that you're striving to get to the perfect version of it, the one idealized image you carried in your head all along, and when it is done, you are also done. Hokusai is on record at the age of 73 saying he'd only just begun to feel like he was learning how to draw things properly, and that "if I keep up my efforts, I will have even a better understanding when I was 80 and by 90 will have penetrated to the heart of things. At 100, I may reach a level of divine understanding, and if I live decades beyond that, everything I paint — dot and line — will be alive." He had drawn The Great Wave, but he didn't believe he was finished -- he thought that he was still just beginning to get started.

And he wasn't finished with his ocean motif, either. Please check out his Mt Fuji At Sea, done in 1834 at the age of 75.

It's all there; Mt Fuji, the ocean, the wave. The boats are gone, but replaced with birds, flying with the wave instead of fighting against it. It's not as famous as The Great Wave Off Kanagawa, but that's not what motifs are for -- each successive work does not have to surpass the previous in terms of success, especially in terms of external success. They're there for you to keep playing with, keep remixing and re-experiencing, for as long as you think you have something to say.

[jaseroque]

I also want everybody to know that Google and most of the internet think that all of those paintings bar the last one are called "The Great Wave Off Kanagawa", so I had to do a sort of middling deep dive just to find their actual names. And then I was like "I don't think those translations are very accurate", so I went on a second quest to retranslate them, which was particularly difficult with painting three (A View Of Express Delivery Boats) because for some reason he titled that one entirely in hiragana, and it's all archaic words that were very hard to chase down without their corresponding kanji. Google suggested "the push-off is a transportation route", which wasn't particularly helpful.

All of which is to say that I probably spent a bit too much time on all of that, but it was fun; and at least I know what those paintings are called now.

[pangur-and-grim]

can I make a confession that might get me in trouble

[pangur-and-grim]

I save scummed through every variation of this guy’s dialogue tree because I really, really wanted him to perform unethical surgery on me. like I’m still so angry about this. WHY have the gross knife hand doctor if he can’t pull out your appendix and laugh about it??? what is the POINT

[pangur-and-grim]

wait hang on I’ll post a pangur photo. don’t unfollow

[icky-b]

Scanned full version of that painting of Velim.

Character uses they/them pronouns

[gachiaakuta]

you. yes you. make your oc/canon ship less palatable NOW

[thulium]

[vicky-frankenstien]

[ID: Blue text reading "Fuck off I'm not giving you a govt ID you are a fucking website are you out of your mind." End ID]

[prophetic-writer]

I'm sorry but I have one draft that I never finished but I laugh every time I see it

[hellsquills]

Writing Tip

Neither do i

[eviliens]

Unreliable everyone

[taguroc]

How does your OC take their coffee/tea?

[angelbabymikaa]

“potentially mature content” yeah that’s my pervert friend i hope it’s mature content that’s what i followed them for

[teh-nos]

oh no my pornography is turning into an angst-filled character study

[renee561]

Oh no my angst-filled character study is turning into pornography

[icky-b]

Gas Station Dick Pills (Leon x Reader)

queer afab reader | aphrodisiac sex | multiple rounds | RE9 Leon

AN: testing out a style of writing I don't often play with. Hope y'all enjoy yourselves (also tell me what your Incident is in the tags <3)

The negative air flow sealed the door shut behind Leon to maintain the careful climate of the class 3 bioanalysis lab.  The emergency lights glowed amber along the floor, red tape marking out counterspace as “clean” and “dirty”.  A desk lamp cast a halo of light over you and your microscope as you assessed one slide after another.

Leon set the cooler down on the counter beside you.  “You’re in late.”

You startled, knocking the microscope out of focus.  You glared at the ruggedly handsome older man with a week’s worth of scruff and a shaggy haircut too trendy for his age.  The bags under his eyes suggested a late flight, and he smelled like gunpowder and airport.  You pushed the rolling chair back from the work station.

“Lot of samples to get through from the Columbia operation,” you said, accepting the intrusion as a welcome break from endless inert fungal spores, “what’s so important you couldn’t send a courier?”

Leon patted the cooler.  “Thought you might STAT mine, if I asked nicely.”

You sighed, swaying in your chair.  “It’s not protocol.”

“Never bothered with it, myself,” Leon said.

You’ve always been curious about what’s going on in the field, and he’s easy on the eyes.  What could it hurt?  You pushed out of your chair.  “What’d you bring me?”

“Something out of a cook operation in Miami,” he said cryptically, “thought it was going to go Shinrikyo.  Turned out to be a recreational gig.”

“Pills, powders, and suspicious little vials.”  You smirked, an expression that vanished with a sharp inhale as the cooler released a puff of silvery dust.

You both coughed as the substance coated your throats.  You slammed the lid shut and blinked away the dust in your watering eyes, the spores settling on the sleeves of your undershirt.  They sparkled in the air as Leon shook his shaggy head.

“God Damnit,” you hissed.  You reached for Leon’s hand and dragged him to the eyewash station, stomping on the paddle to turn it on.

Two little fountains rose from the spout.  Leon bent down and scrubbed at his face.  You blinked away the spores in your eyes, resisting the urge to rub the irritation out of them.  Leon stepped away, guiding himself with your shoulder as he blinked hard.  Water darkened the front of his tight shirt.

“Did you get it all?” you asked as you rolled your eyes under the water.  You rinsed your mouth as best you could.  The earthy taste clung to your tongue and you fought the urge to cough as you dragged Leon into the decontamination room, “what did you bring me?” you demanded without humor.

“I was hoping you could tell me.” Leon was already stripping off his jacket and shaking out a biohazard bag to stuff it in.

You caught yourself staring at the curve of his back and blinked hard.  “No hints about the recreational experience we’re in for?  In the whole of Miami?”

“Just that they were going to make a lot of money.” He pulled down his pants, forcing you to stop glaring out of politeness, but not before you saw the tribal butterfly tramp stamp sitting prettily above his briefs.  

“Anything from nicotine to ayahuasca, got it,” you muttered.

Leon turned on the decon shower, eliminating the possibility of conversation from opposite sides of the room.  You hesitated to pull off your undershirt.  He’s nice enough now, but who could tell how he would react if your body didn’t match his expectations?  He’s older, probably from some branch of law enforcement.  Bad news for you if he has a problem.  You caught the glitter of dust clinging to your undershirt.  Nothing for it now.  You stripped, tying off your own biohazard bag and dropping both in the laundry bin.  When you turned around to join him in the decon shower, you caught the tramp stamp above his indecently round ass and felt a little less afraid.

After a moment of silent scrubbing, Leon bent down to wash his legs—thighs thick, calves well defined.  “Should I get your back?”

“You should buy me dinner first,” you countered, averting your eyes.

“No new overdoses in Miami,” he changed the subject, his back turned to you while he washed his hair with the harsh antibacterial soap, “why we thought…”

“Bioterrorism, right.” You rubbed behind your ears.

You finished scrubbing and stepped out.  Leon reluctantly turned off the water, luxuriating in the heat after a long flight.  You tossed him a towel, and he caught it without looking back.  You lingered as he dried his hair, admiring the rippling muscles of his back.  He paused, his head cocking in your direction.  You cleared your throat and pulled two sets of plastic wrapped scrubs out of the lockers, guessing at Leon’s size.  You handed his over your back and crinkled the plastic loudly until he took it.

Once you were both dressed and smelling of disinfectant, you held the door to quarantine open for him.  You swiped your badge at the next open room and stepped into the hotel-esque quarantine compartment.

Leon turned around, taking in the linoleum floors and unimaginative off-white bedding.  “As good as a Motel Six.”

You flipped the protective cover off the panel by the door and pressed your thumb against the depression in the center, wincing as a needle pricked the pad.  Your name and employee ID number flashed on the screen, a 24 hour countdown to your next test starting.  You stuck the pinpricked finger in your mouth without thinking.

“You’re up.” You motioned to the datapad.

Leon registered himself into quarantine.  “Only 24 hours?”

“Class 3 is bioactive, not pathogenic” you explained, grabbing a bottle of water from the humming minifridge, “you’re good to go as long as your second test comes back normal.”

“Must be nice.”

“What’s yours?” you asked.

“Forty days.” He flopped back on the bed.  

You handed him another water on your way to the sofa.  “They take ‘quarantine’ seriously.”  

He sat up, one arm hooked around a knee, shaking the bottle from side to side three times like it was muscle memory before cracking it open.  He drank greedily, a drop of water trailing down his chin.  He wiped it away on his bare forearm.  You realized you were staring again.

“Leon,” he said, voice hoarse as he fought through a final swallow.

It took you a moment to realize he was introducing himself.  You responded in kind.

“What brings you to the DSO, doc?” Leon asked, resting back on the thin pillows.

You considered complaining that he’d claimed the bed.  “Long story.”

“Give me the short version,” Leon insisted.

You took another sip of water to stall.

“Okay, I’ll start.  My first day as a cop, I got caught in the Raccoon City outbreak,” Leon offered, his eyes closed.

“Too short,” you said, angling your body to look at him.  A strange warmth spread beneath your ribs.

He turned his head, looking at you past his bangs.  “Got recruited into STARS after, and they sent me to rescue the president’s daughter in Spain.”

“You’re that Leon.” You suppressed the impulse to be starstruck.  The Leon Kennedy didn’t know how to properly package a biohazardous sample for transport.

He tore his eyes away, his chest rising and falling more quickly than it had before.  “Then I ended up in the ESR chasing Plaga.”

“Got recruited out of a pharma company,” you said, letting the memory of the incident that led you to the DSO pass you by without lingering.  It was easier than usual, the odd sensation pooling in your abdomen insisted on your focus.  A flush rose up your neck.

“Starting to feel something?” Leon asked, his voice low.

Your eyes met, and breaking eye contact felt like stone grating against stone.  A string deep in your pelvis pulled taut in Leon’s direction.  You clutched the cold bottle in your hands to ground yourself.

“Aphrodisiac,” you said under your breath.

Leon blew out a slow breath, and laughed.  “Gas station dick pills.”

You dropped your head into your hand.  “Gonna make a million bucks.”

“That’s one way to get to know someone,” Leon chuckled.

“Do you have any idea how long this will last?” You begged, asking for anything as the sensation picked up intensity.  Your heart pounded, vision swimming until you focused on anything but Leon.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to look back.  His face pulled into a tense smile.  “Nope.”

“You know, the one thing they don’t stock here is condoms,” you said with a desperate laugh, standing up and pacing across the room.  You opened the door of the minifridge and closed it again.  The only snack you wanted was approaching his fifties and hogging the bed.

“Don’t need them,” Leon reached a hand up and scissored the air, “I shoot blanks.”

“How responsible,” you muttered, resolve weakening by the second.

The silence dragged, both of you pointedly looking at different walls.  The sensation of need traveled down your body, your thighs growing slick without underwear.  It burned, begging you to touch.  You thought your knees might buckle before you made it back to the couch.

A few seconds more, and Leon broke.  He fished himself out of the waistband of the scrub pants, staring past the particle board ceiling as he stroked himself.  You watched for too long.  Your fingers pushed past the waistband of your pants, finding their way through the curls on your mound and down through the slick folds before you realized what you were doing.  

A moan of relief squeezed between your teeth and Leon’s head lolled, his blue eyes burning a hole through you.  You shared a look of surrender. He rolled himself off the bed.  You heard him land in bare feet, the soft rustle of his shirt falling to the floor, then the heat of his body over you.  He stripped you of the loose scrub pants, your legs falling open for him as he placed your hand on his chest.

Your ran your fingers over his sizable pectoral, close enough now to smell his skin over the disinfectant—a rich tone of leather and camphor that made your breath catch in your throat.  His hand searched between your legs, a finger plunging clumsily inside you until he found a rhythm that made your back arch.  His breath puffed hot against your collarbone, callouses rough on your stomach and sides as he pulled his fingers out and lined you up.  

Your slick evaporated on your skin where he grabbed you, thrusting inside with a grunt and holding your hips steady.  He set a straightforward pace driven by impersonal need, but your body welcomed it.  The sound of ragged breathing filled the room.  You dug your nails into his back for purchase.  Crescent scars marred his arms and shoulders—human bitemarks, your sex-addled brain dimly acknowledged. He growled against your neck, the sound sent a shock of pleasure into your diaphragm.

He pulled out before his finish, spraying a blank across your stomach.  Your fingers immediately moved to fill the void he left, coaxing yourself to your own orgasm with a shudder while Leon panted over you.  You breathed in the flushed aftermath until Leon came to his senses and clambered off the couch, pulling his pants back into place.  A few moments later, a damp towel fell across your face and chest.  You wiped off your stomach and stripped off the soiled scrub top, sitting up naked on the couch to take stock of the situation.

Leon returned and dumped all the towels provided on the couch next to you.  You reached blindly for your half-drunk water bottle, the room still sweltering with tension.  He padded shirtless from one and of the room to the other.  He found his phone and leaned against the wall while it rang through to voicemail.  The thin fabric of his scrub pants tented.  Your mouth watered.  You both knew you weren’t done.

A tight smile played on Leon’s lips as you knelt down before him, tugging at his pants until they pooled on the floor.  You ran your hands along the wiry muscle of his thighs.  The tinny voicemail announced “Chris Redfield, leave a message,” as you dragged your tongue up Leon’s shaft.  He throbbed, a drop of precum marring your cheek.

“Chris, I figured out what that stuff was,” Leon’s voice was noticeably tight as you tongued the smooth divot beneath the head of his cock, “we oughta call hospitals in the area, see if anyone came in for—” he held the phone away from his face as you swallowed him, biting back a groan, “see if anyone came in with sexual injuries.”

He hung up with a trembling exhale, his hips bucking up to meet you as you pulled your mouth off him with a wet pop.  You reveled in the taste of your own arousal lingering on his skin, lapping at him from the base of his balls to the tip and back the other way as he fisted his fingers in your hair.  He held you there as you took him in again, fucking your willing mouth as you looked up at him through your eyelashes.  Tears gathered in your eyes as he picked up the pace.  

You ran your hands over the arch of his hip bones, then through the coarse hair on his thighs.  A tear trailed down your face as you pulled off him and sucked in a hungry breath.  You looked up at Leon, face flushed and lips swollen, and grinned.

“What’s that look for?” Leon asked, panting hard.

“Want a wager?” you asked, tapping your own cheek with the head of his cock.

He ran a hand through his hair.  “What did you have in mind?”

“Make me cum three times and I’ll STAT anything you bring me from here on out,” you said.

He pulled you up by the chin and kissed you hard, tongue passing your teeth with ravenous insistence.  You gasped, arching into him as his tongue passed over your bottom lip before he bit it.  Your feet left the ground, his fingertips pressing into the soft flesh on the back of your thighs as he hoisted you onto the cheap dresser.

His fingers plunged inside you, his other hand pressing you back into the wall by your shoulder.  You squirmed as he crooked his fingers inside you, his breath ghosting hungrily across your lips.  Your overwrought body responded embarrassingly fast, shuddering with a sudden and violent release.

“One down, two to go.”  Leon smirked as he withdrew his fingers.

“Goddamn,” you panted, but you didn’t have time to recover before he picked you up princess-style and tossed you onto the bed.

You sprawled face-first on the bedspread with a yelp.  You trembled in the aftermath of your orgasm, but the aphrodisiac coursing through your body refused relief.  You arched into his touch when he pulled up your hips.  The cheap bedframe creaked with his movement.  Leon’s fingers dug into the pliant flesh of your thighs, lust barely restrained.  You groaned through gritted teeth, the pressure bordering on painful.

His cock slid between your glutes.  Slick dripped down your thighs in anticipation.  You arched your back, encouraging him onward.  He readjusted his grip, sliding his rough palms down your sides and angled his hips.  Your body sucked him in, relishing in the feeling of fullness as he pressed himself deep inside you.  A moan dragged out of your chest, legs shaking so hard that his hands were the only thing keeping you from collapsing.

“That good?” Leon teased you, but his voice had gone raspy and his breath quick and hard as he bent over the smooth plane of your back.  

You pressed your hips back into him, tentatively fucking yourself.  Leon’s breath hitched when you moved.  He ran his hand along your spine until he reached the nape of your neck and pushed you down into the pillows.

“Slow down,” Leon ground out, setting himself a pace that drove his entire length into you with each careful thrust.

Your center burned with the movement, each detail of his body inside of yours sending a shock of pleasure through your stomach.  You whined open-mouthed into the pillow, fingers digging into the cheap bedding in an attempt to ground yourself.  Leon panted roughly above you, savoring the devouring pull of your body on his.  His thumb massaged jerky circles into the tense muscle of your neck.

Leon fought his own release, unwilling to slow down further as you pressed tight around him.  “Come on,” he coaxed, “give it to me.”

You did, stars flashing in your eyes as your orgasm overtook you.  Your entire body trembled with the force of your release.  Leon gasped in your ear, his body folding over yours as you milked him dry.  Both of you lay there panting for a long moment, your bodies feeling the strain. 

Still, the aphrodisiac persisted.  Your body cried out for more even as your abdomen cramped from repeated orgasms.  Your head swam with the thick scent of Leon on top of you, his breath warming your neck.  His hips still rocked in the aftermath, erection refusing to leave.

“That’s two,” he finally whispered, marking the occasion.

You opened your mouth to reply, but couldn’t find the words as he slid out of you.  His second blank spilled down your thighs in warm rivulets.  You shivered, your body resenting his absence, but he didn’t leave you wanting for long.

Resting a shaky hand on your lower back, he collected his spend dripping down your thighs with the other and pressed it back into you with two slick fingers.  You groaned, toes curling from the sensation.  He watched you writhe with rapt attention, his fingers pulsing in and out of you with a wet decadence you’d never achieved before.  He hooked his fingers slightly, earning a groan from you.

You drooled on the pillow, back arching weakly into his fingers as he tried to urge you into another release.  You whimpered as your body cramped, the muscles clamping down tight as release erased the thoughts from your head again.  Leon fingered you through it, waiting until you stopped pulsing hard to pull out.  You lay there, mind empty except for the throbbing need that seemed to be reaching its final plateau.

“Three for three,” Leon mumbled, falling on the bed next to you.  Sweat stuck his pale bangs to his forehead and he shivered with exhaustion, but he looked at you with hunger all the same.

“You want to go for four?” You rasped.

Leon rolled over and pulled you into his body.  His length pressed into you, still hard as he adjusted your hips until he found your entrance again.  “This is all I have in me,” he muttered into the back of your neck as he pulled your body into his.

He fucked you lazily, your bodies bleeding into one another.

You woke tacky with sweat, Leon’s arms iron around your waist.  At some point he had slipped out, maintaining an inescapable embrace.  You tried to turn over, and his grip tightened for a second before he eased out of sleep and blinked blearily at you.  Your abdomen ached like you had spent the night doing crunches, your brain peeling away from your skull with a wicked dehydration headache.

“You all there, Leon?” you asked him.

Leon released you and sat up, his hand searching the bedstand for the tepid water abandoned there.  He drank deeply, and handed the remaining half to you.  You propped yourself up on an elbow and finished the bottle off, wiping your lips with the back of your arm.

“What time is it?” you wondered, throwing an arm across your eyes to block out the fluorescent lights above.

Leon glanced at the alarm clock.  “Five.”

“AM?”

“No,” he ran an exasperated hand through his hair, his voice hoarse, “I don’t normally stay for breakfast.”

You sat up on the side of the bed.  The room still stank of sex, both of you sticky with it, so you wandered to the bathroom and ran the shower and fan.  Once clean, you plucked a fresh-looking towel off the pile on the couch.  Leon followed your example.  His phone rang, you snuck a peek at the screen and noted several missed calls.  Two more accumulated while he took his time in the shower.  You opened a fresh bottle of water while you waited.

“When are we out of here?” Leon asked, pulling a fresh set of scrubs from the drawer you kindly left open for him.

“You showed up after midnight,” you reminded him.

He seemed perturbed, so you offered him the rest of your water.  He sprawled on the couch.

“Someone’s trying to get ahold of you.”  You tossed his phone onto his plush chest.

He groped for it blindly and brought it up to his face, shading his eyes from the screen turned up to full brightness.  He sighed through his teeth and called Chris back.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Leon replied after some scolding on the other end of the call, “it’s an afri—” he looked at you for clarification.

“Aphrodisiac,” you said.

“Aphrodisiac,” he repeated, “no, better than oysters.  Yeah, I’m in quarantine until midnight.  With—”

He glanced at you, asking for permission.  You shook your head.

“With one of the lab techs,” he told Chris, who you heard laughing.

You flipped through the food pamphlet left on the desk until Leon finished his call.  His head fell back in defeat, his face flushed in embarrassment.  He rubbed at his cheek like he could rub the blush away.

“I know you don’t stay for breakfast,” you began, coming around the back of the couch, “but as long as you’re here, do you want to get some dinner?”

A smile pulled at his lips as he took the food pamphlet from you.  “Sounds great.”