#<- uh huh :3c

[yinyangle]

well thats just unfair!

HJFGDFHSHJDFGFH

[archersartcorner]

The way Pib’s hypothetical thrice upon a time was described in the last Adventuring Party had me wondering how that would play out in the final fight… Super self-indulgent, but I liked the idea that Tomas would insist on popping out of Mother Goose’s book to protect his scared lil kitty :-) I think this miller’s son should FIGHT

[ofcowardiceandkings]

i need to stop having art ideas when my backlog is already so massive lol

[lucifer-kane]

christopher's a bit busy to listen to. uh. whatever it is ilias is scolding him for. too busy looking at the man's massive arms

[lionheartedscout]

"Slap!" ( clive's hand slipped i swear )

Send "Slap!" to slap my muses ass. @txnichtgut

Gav was caught off guard by the gesture, turning to gaze at Clive wide-eyes. Then his expression relaxed, his lips turning up into a smirk as he took Clive's hand and pulled him closer.

"Oh, you think you can get away that easily, eh? I don't think so!"

[beansprean]

Just a little convo that's been in my notes FOREVER because I meant to use it for something else, but it no longer fit after a while. Gave me a chance to practice painting lol

Support me on Patreon or send a tip on Kofi!

(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: 1a. Close up on a side table in Nandor's crypt, laden with a glazed patterned vase, a wooden jewelry box, a line of books, and a single candle on an intricate vintage holder, lit and casting a warm orange glow on its surroundings. From offscreen, Guillermo says, "I've done a lot of thinking, and I've figured it out. I do want to be a vampire...but not for the same reasons I used to." 1b. Wide shot, knees up of Nandor and Guillermo standing facing each other next to Nandor's coffin, lit from the far side by candles. Nandor, wearing a typical tunic under a fur lined cape, stares quietly at Guillermo and idly knocks the knuckles of his left hand against the coffin lid. Guillermo, wearing a violet shirt and tie with red trousers and waistcoat, has his left hand in his pocket and his right placed palm-down on the coffin lid, a few inches from Nandor's. He looks at his right hand as he speaks: "The powers, the sexiness, the cool capes - I mean that's all great but I... I realize I could have all that as a human, too. And I have." 1c. Close up of their hands on the coffin lid as Guillermo's hand slides closer to Nandor's. He continues: "But what I want...what I really want...is to be a vampire..." 1d. Chest up of Guillermo as he looks up at Nandor with a confident smile, back straight, lit warmly by candles. He declares, "So I can stay here with you, forever. As part of this family."

2a. Reaction shot of Nandor, eyes shining as he raises his brows and fights down the happy, wobbly smile that threatens to take over his face. He echoes breathlessly, "With...me?" 2b. Wide shot, waist up of them both. Guillermo looks away with a flustered grin and clarifies, "Uh! Well, you know. With everybody. Nadja, and..." Nandor turns his head away as well, flustered and frowning, and mutters "Right, yes, of course." Guillermo continues, trailing off: "Laszlo..." Nandor grunts "Uh-huh." Their hands are still an inch apart on the coffin lid. Guillermo ventures, "But also..." 2c. Close up of their hands as Guillermo's slides closer again, the tips of his fingers bumping against Nandor's knuckles. Guillermo continues, "Specifically..." 2d. Close up on Guillermo from a slightly higher angle as he looks up at Nandor through his lashes with a shy smile and shining eyes, finally saying, "You." 2e. Reverse shot of Nandor from a slightly lower angle, looking down at Guillermo with open wonder.

3a. Waist up of them both in profile. Guillermo starts to say, "And I know that y-" but is interrupted when Nandor launches forward with his hands on Guillermo's cheeks and pulls him into a kiss. Guillermo's eyes fly wide, perhaps less surprised than he should be, and Nandor's close in something like relief. 3b. Repeat. Nandor's right hand remains on Guillermo's cheek as his left arm snakes around his upper back to hold him close. Guillermo presses into the kiss, opening his mouth to let in Nandor's tongue as his hands creep beneath Nandor's cape. 3c. Repeat. They continue to kiss, heads shifting to the side to allow Guillermo to slip his own tongue into Nandor's mouth. Guillermo has unfastened Nandor's cape and is letting it drop to the floor. Nandor's right hand has plucked off Guillermo's glasses and is holding them aloft as his left tugs at the knot of Guillermo's tie. 3d. Repeat. Nandor shifts his head to deepen the kiss further, right hand tossing Guillermo's glasses carelessly behind him and left curling around the back of Guillermo's neck. Guillermo, tie now loose and top shirt buttons unfastened, presses his left hand to Nandor's chest where his brooch has been removed to allow access to his undershirt. His right hand hovers behind Nandor's head. 3e. Repeat. The kiss finally breaks, but they do not go far, Nandor's left hand still hooked around the back of Guillermo's neck as he turns his head to kiss down his cheek. His right hand pushes Guillermo's vest off his shoulder. Guillermo turns his head into Nandor's, eyes still closed, and gasps out "Mm, you'll...ah..." His right hand is tangled in Nandor's hair and his left deftly snaps open Nandor's belt.

4a. Repeat. Nandor kisses his way down to Guillermo's throat, hands now pulling Guillermo's shirt from his trousers and sneaking his hands underneath. Guillermo arches his neck to allow him room to explore, right hand fisted in Nandor's hair to hold him there as his left slides under Nandor's open tunic front. Smiling with eyes closed in bliss, Guillermo continues, "turn me...after...right?" 4b. Repeat. Nandor pulls back from Guillermo's throat, eyes closed and smiling happily, to let Guillermo press kisses from his cheekbone to the corner of his mouth. Guillermo is pulling Nandor's tunics off his shoulders, the buttons on his undershirt undone and exposing his chest. Nandor's hands are busy at the front of Guillermo's shirt, pulling apart the remaining buttons. Nandor sighs, "Oh, Guillermo..." 4c. Repeat. Nandor fists his hands at the collar of Guillermo's now open shirt to pull him aggressively upwards, looming down on him nose-to-nose with a feral grin. He promises, "During." Guillermo melts and grins helplessly, hearts drifting around his head. /end ID

[lorelune]

of carnage

|| blade x reader || E/18+ || shared toxicity, band au || wc: 8.8k  || ao3 ||

You and Blade are mutually assured destruction. You know this, and yet it does not stop you from chasing after him.

minors, antis and ageless blogs dni

notes: well hello :3c this fic is part of a trade i did for some LOVELY selfship art with MOST BELOVED @rabbbitseason!! they asked for toxic bladie and reader and i come to DELIVER 🙏 setting and au are heavily inspired by my time in my local music scene and all of the 💀that came with it. i'm glad it can be all get repurposed into blade smut 🫶 THANK YOU!! to bitti for giving me so many fun wants to craft around!! THANK YOU!!! as well to @ofmermaidstories and @2kmps for beta reading!! now, please mind the tags on this one and enjoy <3

CW: dark content, band au, dubcon, pain during sex, bleeding during sex, toxic relationship between blade and reader, angst, hurt/a little comfort, manipulation, gaslighting by blade and the reader @ themselves, face slapping, spanking, spitting, reader smokes cigarettes, reader drinks, self destructive reader, past blade/dan heng, implied unrequited jing yuan/dan heng, kernels of jing yuan/reader

“Are you going to the gig tonight? Fu Xuan asks as if the answer isn’t obvious already.

You crane your neck back to look at her from your roost in front of your full-length mirror. Your knees dig into the carpet and the tips of your fingers are tinged with black. You’ve spent the better part of the last thirty minutes attempting to perfectly smudge the smoky line of eyeliner on your lower lash line. A tube of dark, red lipstick (his color) and sticky gloss rests on the fluffy carpet beside your folded knees.

“Of course.” You can’t make yourself smile, not when your stomach is in knots. “Are you?”

“I should if you are going,” she huffs, leaning against your doorframe. “You need a chaperone.”

(She’s probably right.)

“Please tell me you’re joking.” You grimace and turn away, unable to meet her gaze. She’s too good at reading you. “I’ll be just fine on my own, thank you very much.”

“... He’s playing, isn’t he?”

“I mean, yeah.” You rub more aggressively at the widening smears around your eyes. “But that’s not the only reason.”

“Sure.”

“It’s not, really.” You meet her gaze with a glance in the mirror. It’s hard to keep, her stare intense and full of judgment— (And worry.) “There’s a bunch of good bands tonight. There’s a touring group— all the way from Pier Point.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You have no faith in me, do you?” You pout, keeping your voice light, and hoping it comes off as a bit of a jest.

When you finally turn to face Fu Xuan fully, she dips to sit beside you, on her own folded knees. She plucks your soon-to-be-worn lipstick off the ground and uncaps it, just long enough to see the color, before sighing and closing it once more with a pop. 

“Not really, no.” Fu Xuan leans against your side, cheeks puffing out. “Not when it comes to him—”

“You can say his name, you know.” You smear chalky highlighter on your cheeks with your fingertips. “It’s not a slur. He’s just some guy.”

“‘Some guy’,” She groans. “If he’s really just some guy, why don’t we skip the gig tonight and stay home? We can order in some nice food, and I could invite Qingque.”

“... I—”

“You know that going is a bad idea, right?” Fu Xuan sighs. “We’ve gone over this before.”

“I’m aware of that.” You can’t suppress your scowl any longer, turning to face her. “Blade is fine—”

“He treats you like shit.”

“He treats everyone like that.”

“That doesn’t make it better. If anything, that makes it worse. You deserve better.” Fu Xuan sounds genuinely upset. “And you can do better. Easily. With literally anyone else, even if you find them at one of your nasty house shows. Try entertaining the thought?”

“You don’t have to be so—” You turn to her, fist balling up on your knees— “So mean about it.”

“It’s messy.”

“And it’s not your business.”

“It’s not!” Fu Xuan says, exasperated as she rolls her eyes. “I really shouldn’t even be bothering, but you are my friend. And it is painful to watch you chase the tail of a man who will hardly give you the time of day or bare minimum respect. Excuse me for showing concern.”

“Your concern is noted.” As it has been before. “But I’m fine. I wasn’t lying earlier— there’s other groups I want to see tonight. You... don’t have to come along just to babysit. I’ll be alright. I know you hate them.”

“I do.”

Fu Xuan crosses her arms and exhales, something angry and burning. “At least let me drive you. I can pick you up later too. Rather I do than some stranger or him—”

“Blade. His name, Fu Xuan.”

“Blade.”

“God, you do say it like a slur.” You roll your eyes, the pit in your stomach having become larger and darker. You swipe below your eyes and thank an Aeon or two that your eyeliner is waterproof. 

...

The house venue is a bit out of town, in the rural suburbs on a lot that’s big enough to host a crowd and not bother the nearest neighbors. Fields streak by during your journey, humming with junebugs and chirping with late- summer crickets. Low hills roll by as a harvest moon rises, waxing and half-full.

Fu Xuan drops you at the curb and idles as you collect yourself. A crossbody bag carries your essentials (your phone, your sticky lip products, a lighter to go with the pack of cigarettes that you actually don’t smoke, and two condoms shoved against the bottom). You fiddle with the strap against your shoulder.

“Call me when you need me to pick you up, okay?” Fu Xuan taps the steering wheel. “I’ll be awake.”

“Okay, mom.”

“I mean it—”

“I know.”

“Don’t go home with Blade. Or let him drive you home. He handles a car like he’s trying to kill himself.”

It’s a fair assessment but you still shake your head, trying to seem good-natured despite the rot you feel curling in the back of your throat. Bile, rising, before you have a drop of liquor in you. It’s a little pathetic; you’ll really think so in retrospect. For now, you walk toward the venue itching for a drink in your hand or familiar company. Thundering bass and ripping guitar vibrate from the basement windows, shaking the ground beneath your feet.

A crowd clusters at the back of the house. Folks swap cigarettes and clutch cans of cheap beer and flasks decorated with stickers. You quickly survey, looking for, searching for him—

(He’s usually out here before his set, hiding away somewhere with Kafka sharing cigarettes and glaring at anyone dumb enough to make a pass at her.)

A hand grabs you by the shoulder, and you nearly jump out of your skin. “Oh my gosh, you’re here! I didn’t know you’d be coming to the gig!”

It’s March, you know. She is easy to identify with the sweet, candy-like perfume she wears and the slight press of her almond-shaped gel manicure into your shoulder.  March turns you abruptly, throwing her arms around your shoulders and squeezing. Too tightly, knocking the air out of you in an instant. You give her a tentative hug back and pull away quickly. The contact scalds you.

“Have you seen—?”

“Blade?” March pouts and tilts her head. “You know, I feel like you only come to these things to see that guy. He’s nothing special. And I have seen him. He was off sulking a while ago, by the sheds in the back of the lot.”

“... I’ll have to check. Thanks, March.”

She sighs as you walk away from her, before calling out to Stelle (who is always a step or two behind her anyways.) 

You feel— bad about how you treat them. They’re both good people. So is the third in their trio, Dan Heng, a man with a beautiful face and an eerily calm demeanor, especially when compared to his companions. The group of them was introduced to you back when you first started attending these shows, hanging around the scene, and sweating in the basement of mildew-filled houses. They were some of your first friends, and easy to mesh with when you gave yourself the time and space to. Stelle always had a flask with lukewarm vodka or tequila, and March kept a case of seltzers in her trunk. Dan Heng was the ever-reliable sober cab. 

(It was nice back then. Before you had become so entangled with Blade and the subsequent social politics that came with chasing and occasionally fucking the hot, albeit emotionally-unavailable bassist of HUNTERS. It was far easier to hold those friendships than to orbit around a man who you can never tell if he hates you or wants to fuck you in his back seat.)

You find Blade tucked away around the side of the house, cloaked in shadow while taking long drags of a cigarette. The cherry glows in the dim light. From the basement window peeking out from the ground, a red glow pours out, illuminating the well-worn combat boots he wears. They’re crusted in filth, falling apart at the toe. 

(You’d still lick them if he asked you to. Hump them if he asked you twice.)

Another figure stands across from him. Serene, arms crossed, with storm eyes visible even in the poor lighting. Dan Heng keeps a perfectly neutral expression as he speaks, hushed, to Blade who wears a scowl so perfectly that it looks like he’s carved of immovable stone rather than not flesh. 

You’re not quite within earshot. You can’t make out their words, only their tone. It’s an angry exchange, one that’s charged with heat lighting and ire. Blade spits something at Dan Heng, venomous in his tone like he so easily is. Dan Heng replies back something so cooly that it’s like a low-tide wave lapping at your feet.

If you were better, you would turn around and leave. Neither of them know that you’re here, so close. It’s invasive to listen, but you know that there’s... history between Blade and Dan Heng. You’ve always wondered what it is, and considering that Blade has the emotional availability of a rotting vegetable, you won’t be getting those details out of him.

Maybe witnessing their dynamic (yet again) could provide you some clarity—?

(And maybe, if you know why Blade was so, so hurt by Dan Heng, you can do better. You can be the exact thing that Blade wants, and then he will want you, just as much as you want him.)

You listen more keenly:

“I’ve asked you to stop booking shows where the Express is already playing.”

“And I’ve asked you to get off my dick and stop being such a priss, but it doesn’t look like you’ll ever do that.”

“I’m asking you to be reasonable.”

“Sure, because clearly asking me to not play prime gigs is ‘reasonable’. Not to mention you should be taking this up with Kafka or Elio, not me. Did you just want an excuse to talk, Imbibitor Lunae—”

“Don’t call me that.”

“What, have something else you’d prefer to be called? I remember plenty of things you liked hearing. Want me to name a few?”

“Hold your tongue—”

A stick cracks behind you and you nearly jump out of your skin.

“Bladie~” Kafka purrs behind you, hands sliding up over your shoulders, hot breath over the back of your neck. “We’re on soon. Soundcheck in five, Firefly has a vodka shot for you if you want.”

You’re frozen.

Blade grunts from around the house, and as he does, Dan Heng emerges from the shadows quickly, on hastened feet, and nearly stumbles when you see him. Your expression must be— fucking stupid. Wide-eyed and slack-jawed as Kafka runs her nails up and down your neck. 

As Dan Heng practically sprints off, Kafka croons quietly into your ear, “And what are you doing all the way back here? Looking for Bladie again?”

You don’t need to speak for her to know your answer. Blade’s steps thud against the ground over the short, dry grass. 

Part of you knows you should scramble away and pretend you weren’t just lurking like a stray dog begging for kitchen scraps. It’s humiliating to be caught by Kafka (yet again), doing the same shit on a different day. Another part of you, one which is much louder, more persuasive, and saccharine sweet, urges you to face Blade. If you get caught in his maw, good. 

Your hands shake as Blade emerges from the dark.

He looks like death. Ghostly pale skin with deep purple eyebags, like bruises. His eyes are cut carnelian, ethereal and volcanic against his parlor. A cigarette hangs between his plump lips, threatening to burn and melt the pieces of his fringe that hang around his cheeks. Long, wild black hair, tipped in faded crimson, falls down his back in frizzy waves. His arms bulge obscenely in the tight, black shirt he wears. A carved jade pendant hangs off of his belt.

Blade stares you down and his scowl deepens, turning even more sour. He mutters something under his breath, something unintelligible but cruel. It’s not the first time he’s spoken to you that way. He’s done so more loudly and more brutally. 

You—

(Hate it. You love it. Well, maybe not love, but you crave the way that Blade is awful to you. You’re horrible.)

“Better get inside now,” Kafka hands drift to your waist, tugging on the belt loop of your pants. You let out a little yip. “I’m sure the front row is filling up fast. No need to spy on Bladie if you get a prime spot during the actual set, hm?”

She’s right; she usually is.

Kafka leaves you with an elegant twirl, humming one of HUNTERS songs from their new EP under her breath. You know the tune. You’ve been playing it on repeat for the last two months. 

It’s easy to follow the jarring trills of soundcheck as you float inside the home, following the trail of people headed toward the basement. Descending down the rickety, railingless stairs into thick, humid air that reeks of sweat, beer, and fledging mold. Down, down, down you go— maybe to hell, where you perhaps belong.

...

Moon Drinker by HUNTERS

You taught me that the high moon 

Was our lovers’ sigil

How quickly did you throw away our runes

How empty is your cup

Moon Drinker

That you would break mine too

...

The gig is decent. That’s how these shows tend to be and you enjoy them just enough to tolerate the stench and humidity of grungy basements like this one. 

Three bands play, IP3, the Express, and HUNTERS. The interest you expressed to Fu Xuan about Pier Point’s IP3 was a lie, but they’re not bad. The frontman, a blond with eyes like inverted crystals, has a sultry edge to his voice that verges on sexual. It’s a cleaner sound that rips into something dirtier, filthier, as their set goes on. 

The Express follows IP3. You’ve seen them more times than you can count, but the trio is still nice to listen to, even now. March always plays with the crowd in between her harmonies in a way that riles folks up just enough without causing abject chaos. The band plays a new song you don’t know, one that is angry and loud and so unlike their normal sound. Dan Heng is on vocals, rather than solely on guitar, and you’re reminded of how mournful and melodic his voice can be. The exact words of the piece get eaten by the cement foundation of the basement, but you imagine that it’s an elegy.

HUNTERS is last on.

They usually are, as their music is the loudest and gnarliest, and they’re typically the most well-known (even if they have a shit reputation and their crowds leave trashed venues in their wake). You feel— insane when they start playing. You know all of their songs, even if you don’t really like their music. Kafka’s voice is hypnotic in a way that’s disarming, even on a recording. Silver Wolf is too good of a drummer for the caliber of band that they are, and Firefly shreds easily on guitar, trained on strings since childhood, but using her talents in a grunge band rather than on a world stage.

Blade’s bass playing is messy. Though his tempo is sure and unwavering, the actual rhythm drags and punches in intervals that verge on unnerving. You have never been able to place if this is due to whatever rage and poison he carries into music making, or if his fingers are as arthritic as Kafka jokes that they are. 

It doesn’t really matter, in the end. The sound blends together in a cacophony that sounds like the way bursted flesh looks. If you could taste the way their newest EP sounded, it would be the iron tang of blood and the acrid burn of bile. 

You’re fucked for it— for Blade. You’ve been since you first became tangled in this web.

A pit opens in the middle of the crowd, small at first, but rapidly widening, with more and more people throwing themselves into it. They bounce around and bash against the individuals at the sides of the pit, only to be shoved back in a moment later. 

You try to stay away from it. Instead, you watch Blade like a fucking pervert.

The basement has gotten hot. Steamy, if you look hard enough at the air that barely circulates against the low, pipe-ridden ceiling. Blade has thrown his hair up in a high ponytail, wisps of hair still cling to his neck and temples, sweat visibly rolling down his neck. His shirt sticks to his toned chest as the overclocked speakers try to keep up with the HUNTERS most recently released song— ‘MOON DRINKER’.

Blade doesn’t look at you. Not once.

His eyes are fixed elsewhere, deeper in the crowd, beyond the bodies in the pit and those who hang at the outskirts by the house’s ancient boiler. Blade’s attention is fixed on— something (someone. You can assume who.) Not once does his gaze drift down his instrument, and never does he acknowledge the way you stand in the front row, so close, with your attention squarely on him.

(This is normal. So normal, it’s painful.)

The pit expands even further, widening as more gig-goers jump into mosh as one song bleeds into the next. You almost get swirled in yourself as a stranger slams into your side with enough force to nearly knock you to the ground. 

A broad, warm hand catches you by your bicep, hoisting you up before you even have a chance to fall. 

“Be careful now,” It’s Jing Yuan (who is much too powerful and rich to be at a basement show, but yearning pushes you both to do stupid, nonsensical things) who speaks directly into your ear, so you can hear him even as your ears ring muffled. “Are you alright?”

You turn to nod at him, flashing him a thumbs up and nervous smile. The cologne he wears permeates the space around you, overpowering the sweat and mildew with ease. He gives you an easy smile and a squeeze, before letting you. He sidesteps your frame to be closer to the pit, crossing his arms over his chest and shielding you from the worst of the throng. 

You’re grateful for the cover; it would be embarrassing to topple over right in front of Blade.

It takes you a moment to recenter yourself, lost in Jing Yuan’s scent and the roar of Firefly’s final, aching guitar riffs. You look back to HUNTERS once more as they finish out their set in a loud, carnal flourish. The expensive speakers they’ve dragged with them are going to fucking blow out—

Blade is staring at you.

Not into the crowd, toward the placid face and cold heart that so clearly plague him, not to his bandmates or instrument, but looking at you.

In the red-lit basement, his eyes nearly glow, unnatural in their anger as they always are. It seemed more concentrated, feral and crystallized in its intensity. Rage. You want to cower under it while your insides feel hot and frigid all at once. He pierces so easily, so thoughtlessly. As the crowd erupts into cheers and shouts as the set ends, you cannot move. Staked in place. 

Not once does Blade look away from you, and his mouth does not deviate from the twisted frown he wears.

... 

Swordmaker by HUNTERS

If I were forged alongside you, 

Do you think I would forgive you then?

If iron was your skin,

Steel your lungs

and lead your heart,

You would be easier to hold.

Empty are memories

Full is the garden

And bloody is the blade.

…

You should be better than this.

Blade slams you up against the back of the shed, the motion jarring and far too fast to be pleasant. Your head knocks painfully against the wood and peeling paint, and despite how you whimper with the impact, Blade doesn’t react. He doesn’t seem to care. 

(You know he doesn’t.)

He hikes your leg up over his hip and grinds against your core through your pants. The motion is rough, clumsy and far too harsh to be pleasurable. The dry friction through your panties makes you squirm and dig your nails into his shoulders. Blade grunts in your ear. You think he likes the pain.

The gig was only let out half an hour ago, and plenty of people are still milling around. Whispers are circulating about if and where there will be an afterparty. You weren’t paying much attention to them— they’re easy to ignore— especially when Blade had been dragging you by the wrist just far enough away from the main house to fuck without being overtly noticeable. 

(Barely, though. Blade can be loud and you can be loud when you’re with him. You’re tempting fate to be caught, seen with him in this way. It’s an open secret that you’re the scraps that Blade entertains himself with, but you would rather not be caught with your literal pants down.)

Blade smells like cigarettes and sweat. The scent of unclean smoke tangles in his unruly hair as you get a grip on it and tug. The juncture of his neck has the faintest hint of some cologne you’re sure he doesn’t know the name of and stale sweat. You press your lips there and dare to drag your tongue across his skin and taste him. It’s not a good taste, not necessarily, but you love it. Salty and filthy. (It’s disgusting, but familiar and morosely comforting.) You are drunk on it and it makes you feel pathetic at the same time.

A growl sounds in your ear as Blade pins you with his weight to the shed. Dragging you back from his neck, he grabs your jaw, forcing you to look at him fully. 

“Don’t leave marks.” He paralyzes you with his stare and sneer. 

“I’d never.” You try to sound earnest, even if it’s a lie. Because you would— you’d bite and tear at his neck (like he does at yours) until the skin there is black and blue. Happily, you would leave hickies above his collar. Split his lip and bite his jaw hard enough to bleed. You could wear his blood on your teeth and smile for once at these fucking gigs.

Instead, you do not bite him. You just let Blade maul you as he desires.

He grinds against your core. The pressure is unpleasant at this point, too much and too little all at the same time. When you whimper now, he just ignores you and slips his hands under your shirt. He grabs your waist in both hands and squeezes.

���Turn around,” says Blade, already twisting you himself, so your front is pressed against the shed.

“H-Here?” You laugh nervously. Despite your... reputation, something cold, unwelcome and uncomfortable settles in you. “C-Can’t we go to your car? Or inside?”

“Maybe later.”

(It’s awful. It’s sick, the way your heart flutters at the implications of ‘later’. ‘Later’ means more of him. More of Blade’s time, his touch, his hardly-there care. More scraps for you to gorge yourself on, more time to beg for more. It’s sick. It’s sick how fucked you are for him.)

Blade reaches around your front to undo the button at the top of your trousers. In a swift motion, he has them around your thighs. Just enough that he can bend you over and access your cunt with some amount of ease. He keeps your panties on at first (he usually does this. You’re never sure why. You can delude yourself into thinking it’s him taking his time with you, but you know that that is a lie). 

Blade places one of his hands on the back of your neck to flatten you against the shed, while the other must be unbuttoning his own pants to get his cock out, based on the jingling of metal and shred of a zipper. You swallow, your mouth dry. You’re dry, but you know that if you try to touch yourself to prep at this point, Blade will only be meaner.

The most he does is run two fingers over your slit, over your panties. It’s barely enough contact on your clit to be felt, but you gasp and shudder anyway. Canting your hips back, you try to encourage more contact. Anything he’ll give you.

He sighs behind you. Disappointed. Aggravated. It makes you want to cry.

Blade peels down your panties. The cold air shocks you, your core tightening up, but you hardly have time to adjust to the temperature before Blade’s equally cold hands fully part your folds. He sighs again, pulling away only to spit on his fingers, and smear his saliva around your hole. It feels dirty. You feel dirty.

When Blade pulls away, you whine at the loss of contact (at how cold it is, at how the crowd milling around smoking cigarettes and cheap weed is just on the other side of this dilapidated shed crows and laughs into the night). You swear you can recognize March’s giggle above the din of conversation.

You’re brought back to your entanglement with a harsh slap to your ass. Harsh and audible. The sound that escapes your lips is choked and high. 

“Don’t get distracted,” Blade huffs. He spits again, presumably on his dick. 

You nod, latching onto the pain radiating from slap to your ass. As if sensing it, Blade lays down another strike. This one is hotter, harder. He isn’t holding back. It is sure to bruise the tender flesh there. A mark. Something that will tangibly ache, something leftover from your tryst.

You could cry.

The velvety head of Blade’s cock nudges your folds. He brackets you into the wall, arms on either side of you. Heat radiates off his chest and sinks into your spine.

“‘Feels good?” He asks, voice hoarse as he coats himself in your meager slick.

“Y-yeah,” you lie. It’s not enough to feel good. You don’t care.

Blade seems content enough with your answer as he bears down on you. Flattening you to the dirt-covered shed, he hitches his hip down, then up, trying to fit the tip of his cock into your hole. He maneuvers your hips as he pleases, grunting when the tip of him catches on your cunt. When you dare to whine, even the smallest sound, he cracks his hand down on your ass again. Your vision speckles into darkness with the shot of pain and—

(The roar of anxiety and subsequent shame when you realize how much quieter the milling crowd nearby has become.)

“Hold still.” Blade's voice has sunk low, gravely with the cigarettes he’s been smoking all evening. 

The next time his cock touches your opening, he presses in without hesitation.

It’s—

It’s too fucking much.

It is, it always is, every single fucking time he fucks you. Any prep he gives you is perfunctory. Blade will never lavish you with attention, not in the way that you probably need. That you—

(Might even deserve.)

No, the most that Blade will do is fuck you filthy behind a shed, near some of his more well-adjusted peers and probably come inside of you. On past occasions, he has let you suck him off in the backseat of his car. He’s only accidentally (‘accidentally’) came on your face a few times. Less than ten, more than five. Once, he ate you out for a few minutes, but you swear to god he was groaning someone else’s name as he did.

(You’re fucking pathetic.)

This is always too much. Blade is too big. Too big, even if you were stretched and primed with a few fingers like would be right and proper. As tight and dry as you are, it’s painful. He has to grind into your cunt with rolling little thrust so he can fit himself in at all. Each one shocks a breath out of you, a shattering, fragile sound. 

When Blade bottoms out, he lays flat over your back. The weight of him is suffocating. His corded muscle is all dead weight above you as his cock twitches inside you. You can’t tell if he’s idling to allow you some time to adjust, or purely for his own leisure. You can’t be sure. You don’t want to ask him either.

“You’re tight.” Blade’s voice threatens to break.

(Of course you are. He’s the only person you will let fuck you, and these trysts only occur every few weeks, when there’s a show that you can be cornered at.)

He bucks into you, deeper still. The head of his cock is touching parts of you that shouldn’t be touched.

You whimper, “Blade—”

He growls in response. It’s a raspy and low tone that makes arousal burn in your gut and leak down your thighs. (You hope so anyway— it’s more wet and you don’t think it hurts enough that you’re bleeding.) Blade fucks you in earnest, then. There’s no delay, no waiting, no potential for momentary, perceived niceties. He pulls out of you almost completely, then thrusts back into you in one single motion. The friction burns and your vision wavers. 

(You still moan like a whore.)

You feel— dirty. Disgusting. Pathetic as he fucks you like. You don’t feel like a person as he fucks you; you never do. How could you? The grip he uses on your hips is too bruising and the force and strength he’s using to brutalize your cunt is just too much. He fucks you like he’s taking anger out on a piece of drywall. Blade shares physically with you in the way a dog shreds a chew toy to bits, then leaves it on the ground to fester.

Blade grunts next to your ear, nipping there.

He doesn’t kiss you— well, not often. He can’t with your current position. You wouldn’t expect him to anyway. Sometimes he leaves a ring of dark hickies across your neck, like a collar. You like those, but he always waits an extra long time to see you after he marks you like that.

(You presume to make sure that the bruises have fully yellowed, then faded. A clean canvas.)

Blade’s pace increases, just before he pulls out. His cock rests on the cleft of your ass and he tips his forehead to rest on the shed, just beside yours.

“You’re still dry.”

“Sorry—”

He cuts you off. “It’s fine.”

...

It apparently isn’t fine. 

Blade drags you toward the house. He barks at someone, then Kafka, to find a room. You feel dazed as he does. Out of your body, as you receive a number of knowing and unknowing stares from the lingering show-goers who cluster around a firepit. 

(How many of them heard you just now? How many know the exact sounds you make when in barely-there pleasure? In certainly-there pain? How many of them know the sound of Blade’s too-big cock slapping into your too-dry cunt?)

It makes you feel sick to think about.

A room must be found for the two of you, as Blade drags you up the stairs of the back porch. 

As he does, he hesitates.

(He has so rarely done this.)

His gaze is not on you; it pierces elsewhere in the dark. A floodlight off the back of the house illuminates a section of the yard, and just beyond its reach, nestled somewhere between the dark and light, he fixates. His jaw sets and locks. 

There are figures, you realize.

They’re easy to identify once you actually focus. One is lithe and short-haired, the other broad-shouldered and long-haired.  Dan Heng and Jing Yuan. Speaking on the outskirts. It feels private. Their attention turns from their hushed conversation to the two of you as Blade stares daggers and swords into them. As if he could pierce them with nothing more than his silent rage and angry eyes. 

You freeze.

Their expressions are obscured in the lowlight, but you can almost feel the looks they give you. Like a sickly mucus that gets stuck to you and rolls down your flesh in slow, cold globs. 

Dan Heng (once so dear to you, still probably dear to you—) looks guarded, thought darkened. Contempt twists his expression, anger following just after. You’d ever wager that he’s disgusted, maybe. Probably with you, because he knows you’re better than this. Beside him, Jing Yuan wears an expression of careful passivity, of geniality, as he always does, but it’s tinged with something sad and old. For all parties involved in this silent, momentary exchange.

Jing Yuan regards you directly, slowly blinking at you, as though he was a large house cat intent on making you feel safe, and not a presence that only drives the bubbling anxiety in you higher. 

It’s a seconds-long encounter that stretches for an eternity. You cannot make yourself move. You cannot feel anything other than rotten and small.

Blade lets out a harsh exhale and yanks you away. The scene breaks and you’re dragged inside. He whispers under his breath, vitriol-tinging his tone. Your panties feel sticky and wet as you walk.

Kafka had found a room for you, on the second floor of the house. God knows whose it actually is. You don’t get a good look at the room as Blade pushes you inside.. It’s dim, the only light is licking in from the dirty window, an afterburn from the raging bonfire outside. You hear muffled voices still, leaking in like a draft. 

Blade locks the door and pushes you onto the unmade bed.

It’s a cheap mattress with flannel sheets. It smells like old weed smoke and cheap incense. Fu Xuan would tell you that you deserve better than this. You think you might.

Blade climbs on top of you, jaw still locked, and eyes far away.

(You do wonder what happened between him and Dan Heng. Something did. Something gutting and heartbreaking— you hear it when Blade sings. A betrayal, an intangible knife cut but still so painful. Dan Heng has always spoken about Blade with a type of protective neutrality. He warned you to never get involved with Blade. To stay away, to not get on Blade’s bad side, and if something did entangle you with him, Dan Heng could sort it out. He has always cared so fiercely for those he loves; it’s a shame that you have squandered it.)

(Blade is a sentimentalist. Blade is so held in the past that it chokes him. It always has, during every moment you’ve shared with him. He lingers in the bloody past, he holds it in his hands with a grip that’s meant to snap bird wings and flay flesh. He hates Dan Heng. He still loves him, though. You see it on his face sometimes. You hear it in Blade’s music. The ache, the death, the unending grief and mourning and rage that the man simply won’t let go of.)

(It is obsession.)

It shouldn’t make you bitter to think about. Yet, it does. It’s not your place to hold those types of feelings, let alone express them. For so many reasons, Blade will never see you as anything more than a cheap fuck. You think Dan Heng is the primary one. Over time, you’ve grown bitter. Resentful. 

Blade pulls off your shirt in one swift move. He’s slower than he usually is. More deliberate. His hands are shaking, like how they do just after he finishes a set. It’s… off—

You hate it. You hate that the lingering pain of someone else will effect Blade more than you ever, ever could in the present.

You grab a fistful of his hair and tug. His breath catches as you do.

”What the fuck is your deal?” You sneer at him. There’s a cruel edge in your voice that does not sound like you. Blade brings out the worst in you, and you fall prey to it, so easily. 

Blade glances up at you, eyes sharp like cut gems. He says nothing.

”You and Dan Heng,” you laugh. You don’t mean to— you don’t, you don’t— and you yank Blade’s hair so he has to look at you better. “It’s pathetic, you know. How you look at him like a kicked fucking dog. What happened between the two of you, anyways?”

Blade freezes. So do you.

You’ve misstepped so brutally. So stupidly and tragically and idiotically. You’ve pushed too hard for what—?

Blade is on his haunches in an instance and he slaps you across the face.

Your head follows the force of the impact, forcing your face to the side. Your cheek smarts. It wasn’t— that hard. Blade is strong. He could do worse. Still, it shocks you. The pain is enough to make you gasp and reel.

”What the fuck—“

”Don’t,” Blade grabs your jaw, “open your mouth about things you know nothing about. You should know better.”

You should. You do.

”I could know more, if you ever told me, I don’t know— anything?” You laugh in his face, manic behind your eyes. You’re crushing the delicate nature of your cheap arrangement like how a child would crush a flighty butterfly’s papery wings. 

Blade shakes his head, smothering a laugh. He wrangles you forward, half-off risen from the bed, and parts your lips with his thumb. Before you can react, bite, claw— he is raising himself higher than you, dwarfing you in height, and spitting down into your mouth, onto your tongue.

”You don’t know when to shut up, do you?” He pats the side of your face, over the cheek that he struck. It burns. In another world, this touch would be tender. Here, you can only wince. 

Before you can reply, continue to run your mouth and rile him up further, Blade kisses you.

It shocks you, stuns you. 

He— he hasn’t ever kissed you before. It’s never been an explicit boundary, but never once during these trysts has Blade ever initiated this type of contact. It has felt dangerous to do so yourself. Something that’s too intimate, too personal to share. The core of your entanglement is the way he uses you. It’s impersonal. 

A kiss, you think, implies something more tender.

You gasp into his lips, and he takes the opportunity to all but violate the inside of your mouth. His tongue plunders inside, licking at his own spit that you have yet to swallow. A noise chokes off in the back of your throat. Something desperate and shocked that you hardly recognize. It’s filthy. He nips at your lips and pushes you back down.

Blade devours you. 

It’s too much, really. It’s a gesture of tenderness that has been so thoroughly mutilated, calling it a kiss feels paltry. The way his lips are on your own is much more like an argument and a subsequent conquest. One in which you lose ground. He nips at your lower lip, snags it between his teeth, and tugs it as he pulls away.

You pant, the sound of your own breath roars in your own ears. Your hands are still buried in his hair, grip unyielding, anchoring you.

Blade smiles, something poisonous and satisfied. You are too drunk on the singular kiss he gives you to care that much.

“That’s all it takes, is it?” He laughs, the sound dark and rolling, like the sound of an earthquake cracking the earth. 

He already knows you’ll beg for scraps. God forbid he gives you even a morsel more. 

The bed squeaks as he flips you by your hips so you’re laid flat, belly-down on the dirty sheets. Blade spanks your still-clothed ass for good measure before rustling around behind you. Assumedly to disrobe, just enough to fuck you. Assumedly, to ignore the condoms you brought (knowing he would disregard them—). Assumedly, to fuck you with every inch of your life. 

You want it. You want him so badly it physically hurts.

(Or, maybe you tore while he had you behind the shed. Who is to say?)

Blade clamors behind you, shaking, arthritic hands tugging your pants by the waistband. He doesn’t even bother to unzip them this time. Your panties get pulled down along with them, and they get tossed elsewhere in the barely-lit room. Blade spits behind you, and a sound of too-dry stroking follows. 

“D-do you want me to suck you off?” you ask with a hum. You’d let him fuck your face, if he asked. Or, if he wanted. Blade wouldn’t ask.

“No.”

“Just let me know.”

Blade sighs behind you, but you think little of it.

You brace yourself up on your elbows, lowering your upper half to be flat against the bed, and arching your hips as high as they’ll go. It’s as if to make yourself look appetizing. You hope it entices Blade, even a little.

(Please, you need him to want you. You need him to want you so badly. Please, please, please—)

The head of Blade’s cock rubs as your hole, down to your clit, then back up again a few times. He’s so hot, it’s like he is burning you. Contact that scalds. The contact against your clit is... nice. It’s the most warm up he has graced you with in a while. You could crave more, but settle for this. 

“C’mon Blade,” you whine. Your voice sounds airy. “Fuck me.”

He doesn’t reply, not with his voice. The rocking of his hips becomes more pronounced, and the slide of him against you becomes slicker. Still too big, too hot, but wet at least. Which is a bonus. Pre and blood are probably leaking onto the shaft at least a little bit too.

It makes it easier once he slides home in a single blow. 

It’s too fucking deep— especially with this angle. The head of his cock presses against your deepest parts, bruises them in a place where no one can see or feel but you. Blade is huge, the girth of him stretches you as his hips rest against your ass.

A wretched noise bubbles up past your lips. Something between a cry and a plea, for more, for less— to go home, to be in a warm, clean bed with someone who actually cares— you aren’t sure. Your desires have been twisted up and wrong for so long, you can’t tell what you really want. 

It makes you feel rotten, and then there’s only one thing you want.

(To hurt.)

Blade fucks you, then. Fully in, fully out of. Long and deep thrusts that carve out your insides in a brutal way. It’s violent. He leans over your back, and braces himself over you. You feel small, stupid, and hurt. A horrible swirl of things that make tears spring up at the corners of your eyes. You bury your face in the crusty pillow you’d manage to snag nearby—

And Blade tugs it away immediately. His big, calloused hand curls to hold your jaw up, so every pitiful whine and whimper you let out can’t be muffled. The bed squeaks as his thrusts slow.

“Don’t hide.”

“I-I won’t.”

“You were.”

“I won’t a-again—”

“You want this, don’t you?” Blade growls in your ears, then moves to the most fragile skin of your neck and bites. 

(You do, you do— god you do. You need this.)

You nod, and Blade keeps biting. His jaw nearly locks. You’re sure that you’ll be bruised for a week.

Blade scoffs and rears back, grabs your hips in both hands for leverage. And he fucks you.

That’s all it can be, really. You can’t get a solid hold on anything. The pillow has been thrown off the bed, and you struggle to find purchase on the sheets. All you do is take it. Pleasure, or something like it, builds in your core and goes nowhere. It simmers but never crests anywhere near orgasm. 

You don’t mind. This is enough.

Blade’s pace increases, never frantic. Never with him. Manic maybe, insane, tortured and damaged, but never frantic. Not with you. His rhythm falters as his cock slides in and out of you, slick beginning to stick to the inside of your thighs. 

His hand comes down on his ass. The other cheek, this time. It’s enough force to bruise again. You’ll have trouble sitting for a week.

As Blade nears his peak, his rhythm stutters. His breath grows harsher and more strained. His grip goes from bruising to breaking. You gasp with the pain, but don’t tell him to stop. His cock brushes against your cervix, and never your sweet spot. 

Blade flattens you to bed, prone, and puts his entire weight on top of you as his orgasm hits him. A strangled cry shatters from his lips into your ear as he fucks you too fast and too hard. A gush of warmth fills your insides, spilling to your outsides when there isn’t enough of you to hold all of him.

The bed frame slams into the wall with his final few thrusts. 

You lay there, in the filth, in the pain and the dissatisfaction of the tryst, and rot.

...

Blade leaves you there, at some point.

Not right away, but eventually. He rolls off you at some point, catches his breath for a while, checks his phone, then rises to right himself.

You cannot make yourself move. The only thing you can make yourself do is take slow, measured breaths. Each ache in your body is punctuated, loud and unignorable now that the fizzling pleasure of sex has dissipated. What’s left of it is this: carnage. 

“You have a ride home?” Blade asks. He must be near the door, based on the sound of his voice.

Fu Xuan’s warning words come to mind, and shame fills your belly. 

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

And he leaves.

You rot for a while longer.

This is not the first encounter that has gone this way. Blade fucks you like this and leaves. There’s no reverie or sweetness. There is using and being used, and the conclusion that always follows is this. Cooling, soon-to-be dry cum leaking out of you in thick droplets and a bite mark on your neck you’ll need to conceal for the next two weeks. Blade will ignore you like he doesn’t know you, next time he sees. But still fucks you like a toy.

It’s awful. It’s all you want.

You force yourself up at some point.

You’re surprised to find that your pants and panties are in a heap on the end of the bed. You are sure that they were tossed farther, but perhaps you misremember. Painstakingly, you rerobe yourself. Moving your legs in such ways hurts so bad, you could cry. You probably did cry while Blade fucked you. 

The quick stop in the squalid bathroom confirms this. Mascara smudges around your eyes and down your cheeks. The sticky gloss you were wearing has been smeared away. Not even a stain of the crimson remains. 

You feel hollow as you walk down the stairs, outside, toward the bonfire and its rapidly dwindling flames. A few folks still millaround, people you recognize, just barely, though no one you could call a friend remains around the pit. Stelle, March, and Dan Heng are long gone, probably. You’d feel too ashamed to look them in the eye anyway.

Someone offers you a warm beer and you take it. Your hands shake.

Hollow and wordless, you move around the backyard like a specter. Part of you wishes you were one, just something mostly formless and shapeless. Transparent. No one could see you make a fool of yourself that way. There would be no witnesses to your desperation and perversion.

You swallow back bile when it rises in your throat, and wash it down with a chug from the can.

You’re surprised to find Jing Yuan idling around the corner of the house. He looks up when you near him, and he greets you with the same genial smile he always wears. He nods to the space next him, already plucking a pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket on his shirt. You take one, and he lights it for you in the next instant.

“It looks like you needed that,” he hums. He doesn't take one for himself, only tucking the carton away and out of sight.

“Maybe.” You want to vomit. Or slide down the wall of the house and rot there. 

He laughs then. It’s too... warm of a sound for how you feel. For how dirty these venues are, and for the company that you have come to hold, it feels dissonant. Jing Yuan is too kind, too patient. 

(He cannot be your friend because your ruin would spread to him, maybe.)

“Take as many as you like,” he urges with a hum, and settles next to you.

Silently, you ruminate. Descend into yourself. You suppose, given the events you’ve seen tonight, that you’re both stewing in something akin to yearning. 

(Jing Yuan is better than you for it. He, at least, doesn’t sleep with his unrequited adored in someone else’s bed after a messy house show.)

“Do you have a way home?” asks Jing Yuan, breaking you from your slow-rolling spiral.

You shake your head. It would be rude to call Fu Xuan so late. You— you hadn’t really thought about a ride. Not yet. 

Jing Yuan looks you up and down and his smile looks sadder, “How about a ride home?”

“Sure.” You nod. 

The ride back home in Jing Yuan’s (too nice, too expensive, too decadent) car is quiet. An album from a band you don’t recognize plays at a low volume. Soothing, soft voices, so juxtaposed from the venue you leave behind. Maybe you just can’t recognize the words because you’re decaying. Your phone lays in your lap, over your aching thighs. 

[no new messages]

(Because Blade never messages you after a fuck. You’re not worth that much to him.)

...

Gingerly, you unlock your front door and enter your little apartment. Fu Xuan lays on the couch, on her back, with her phone against her collarbone. Her mouth is parted in peaceful sleep, though her hair is still done up, all of her pins are still in.

(She waited for you, again. And you failed her, again.)

You don’t know how she puts up with you. Or why either.

Some part of you wants to vomit. Wretch, like it’ll purge the awful, disgusting thoughts warming you. They do not serve you. You should just—

(Know better. You gain nothing from entangling yourself from Blade. The sex is... enough. Because Blade doesn’t know his own strength sometimes and makes it hurt, unintentionally toeing the line between too little and too much. It’s still not worth it. It shouldn’t be worth it. You’d be better off never going to any gigs, ever again. You wouldn’t have to disappoint and embarrass yourself to your old friends then. You wouldn’t have to linger in the yearning of others while never having that affection given to you.)

You collapse atop your bed. Your makeup has been roughly scrubbed off with an old towel, and you can feel the crunchy remnants of mascara clinging around your eyes. You can’t make yourself care. Burying your face in your pillow, you burrow into your blankets. You’ll probably be sore and hungover tomorrow... today? The songbirds are just beginning to chirp their morning arias. It makes you sick to your stomach.

As you begin to doze, your phone vibrates. 

[one new message]

blade: did you get home 

Your mouth feels dry and your chest feels so tight you could die. 

you: yeah. jing yuan drove me. 

[seen: 5:11 AM]

You hold your breath as Blade begins to type. Then stops typing. Then begins again. It goes on for several volleys and you really do think you might puke.

blade: get some sleep

You drop your phone somewhere in your sheets. Giddiness fills your chest, despite the exhaustion and ache and bone-rotting fatigue. Elation causes you to smile, something wide and girlish that you have to hide in your pillow, lest it be beared to the world.

(It’s a scrap. It’s nothing. It’s worse than the bare minimum and the bar is already in hell.)

But, it’s something.

A morsel. Something to clutch onto and hold and cherish.

You want to put his words between your teeth and swallow. 

[feudalfang]

he absolutely DOES not flinch at the aggression in her tone. nor is he sitting there; ears momentarily flattened against his skull ; blinking wide eyes up at her & that shiver that had shot up his spine wasn’t…. that was not due to the spark of trepidation he felt in the wake of her. oh no, there had just happened to be a chilling gust of wind. 

that coincidentally blew at the same time. 

it had nothing to do with her, or the fact that he’d probably asked her why she was so angry one too many times. 

“yeah right.” he scoffs ; slitted golden hues snapping to regard the balls of her fists. “if yer so not mad, whys it you look like that?”

"i am not mad," kagome snapped—rather irritably, mind you, despite her efforts to appear otherwise. the warm smile that usually tugged at her lips, the shining glimmer of hope and passion forever illuminating in her eyes—they were all gone, replaced with long, deep creases and a simmering fire. at her sides, her hands were balled into tiny fists, her nails gently biting into the palms of her hands as if to distract her from the urge to outright punch something, or more specifically someone, right then and there—but that would be the behavior of someone who was indeed mad and she was not mad.

@feudalfang

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Regarding the tags you left on my last piece, I totally see Price sitting on Nik's lap now, and I'm 1000% imagining Nik's hands being on Price's ass and thighs 👉​👈​ I just feel like Nik is a very grabby kind of guy in general :3c

Thank you for the kind tags you always leave on my art btw !! Always makes me super happy <3

It's a good lap. Price should absolutely occupy it as often as possible. One (1) grabby Nik comin' right up.

cw: kissing, groping, grinding, Nik is Price-sexual. I put the sexiness under the cut so you can opt in if you're feeling it. Much love, Nekro.

Price felt Nik's growl beneath his lips as two large hands slapped against his arse and squeezed. A litany of low Russian tumbled out next, and Price licked up to the hinge of Nik's jaw as if to follow the path of the words to his tongue. "U tebya khoroshaya tolstaya zadnitsa..."

They were both freshly showered, Price in a fresh pair of boxers and Nik in the grey sweats that slouched low on his hips and let plenty push through the soft fabric as he walked, rolling from side to side between his thighs. Dia-fuckin'-bolical.

It had taken only a glimpse of Price's hungry gaze for Nik to grab him by the hips and pull him onto the large hotel bed to straddle his lap. Nik liked to run his hands over Price's body, savouring his masculinity, his hairiness, the way his muscles moved under his skin and his body reacted to touch. He'd work them both up and Price got to reap the rewards.

Price savoured the feel of stubble against his lips, his tongue, as he devoured Nik's neck, fisting a handful of damp black hair to keep his conquered ground surrendered to him. Strong hands continued to knead his backside, palms tucking beneath the curves of each cheek and then working their say up to the top to admire the shape. It felt nice through the cotton of his boxers, Nik's fingertips alternating between a stroke and a massage, and Price's body, already flushed from the heat of the shower, warmed with arousal.

"You are a masterpiece, solnyshko," Nik growled as Price licked into the shell of his ear, sucked on the lobe, before returning to the hinge of his jaw. Price pressed forward to feel the firm, solid line of Nik's body against his and moaned softly. There was a little give, a little plush; Nik was built like a powerlifter, not a model, thank fuck. Made for strength, endurance, explosive power; beneath the padding was hard muscle, his shoulders and biceps bouldered out and pronounced beneath Price's hands, his back broad enough to carry a damn ox. He was one to talk about bloody masterpieces, walking around like this.

Price groaned again as he rubbed into the thick hair on Nik's chest, and Nik's fingers wandered between his thighs, Nik's spreading wider so that Price's knees were pushed further open with them. Two fingers pushed down Price's perineum, massaging back and forth with a perfect pressure. "Mmph, fuck, Nik, that's..."

"Good?"

"Yeah..."

"In Taoism, this is called the Hui Yin, or the gate to life and death."

"Uh huh," Price said, amused. Of course Nik had some hidden mystic sex knowledge. Why wouldn't he? It was Nik. Truly nothing that came out of his mouth surprised Price these days, but damn did it all sound fuckin' good.

Nik's voice was low, husky, and it vibrated through Price's own chest, curling around his heart like a physical force to make it ache. It was love, wasn't it? The sound of Nik's voice, the feel of his hands, it made Price ache with love and want. "Tell me more, Nik. Keep talkin'." And keep touchin' me, fuckin hell.

"I was told that martial arts students would pay their instructors a small fortune to activate this point, release their energies, essential life forces." Nik pushed up with the hand beneath Price's arse, urging him to lean his weight forward, to relax.

"Hurr, can't think of anythin' more uncomfortable 'n some old monk rubbin' between my legs..."

"He would do it from the inside too."

"Oh, grand. Even worse." Price ground forward a little, pushing his hard prick, pinned down to the side by his boxers, into the plush of Nik's belly as the well of pleasure in his hips began to grow. Nik continued to enjoy the curve of one arse cheek, squeezing it against his palm, his other hand still working leisurely at the spot behind Price's balls.

"I would train you to have a full body experience when you orgasm. I imagine you would look and sound... beautiful. But you are too impatient."

Price's ears reddened. Nik was the only person in the world that called Price's craggy, asymmetrical self 'beautiful', and it made him feel all sorts of... funny. Good funny. "'Ave yer looked in the mirror to see what I have t' work with? You'd be impatient t--hng.. ahh, Nik." It may be on the outside, but Nik knew what he was doing, pressing up just so in focused passes. It was sweet torture, the need for release building with no outlet, the pleasure of it blooming through Price's back, down his thighs.

"You are healthy, young, vigorous, your body is... a work of art. It would be a powerful experience."

"Unf," Price replaced, clinging on for dear fucking life as he fought the desire to hump Nik's body like a rutting hound. He tilted his hips forward and buried his face against Nik's shoulder, soft, tight pants blustering over Nik's neck. "Nik, I need..."

"I know, soon, relax and focus on the feeling, not the end."

"Cruel bastard," Price said, trying not to whine but bloody hell it was hard. "Please tell me yer brought lube."

"I always provide you with a full service, no?"

"Hollow points, exfil and lube, ha.. oh, oh, fuck, Nik, c'mon, please..."

"Hm," he slapped Price's arse and flicked his chin at his duffel bag. Price practically threw himself across the bed to rifle through it, while Nik shucked off his sweats and lounged, gloriously naked and unhurried, against the pillows. When Price looked back, his mouth went dry at the sight of him, thick cock hard against his belly, arms folded behind his head expectantly.

"You worked me up so you could be a pillow princess, you jammy git."

"Da," Nik admitted with a wry little smirk. "You are young, fit... I am old man, tired..."

"Oh yeah, knackered, clearly," Price grumbled, crawling back up the bed and kicking his boxers off as he went. Nik's body was clearly anything but tired. Price pushed the lube into Nik's chest as he climbed back into his lap and Nik took the hint, flicking the cap off with his thumb before taking his sweet time to enjoy the preparation as Price licked into his mouth.

When Price finally got what he wanted, those big hands on his hips, that beast of a prick inside him, the orgasm was out of this world. Whited vision, curled up with the intensity, throat raw; the works. Maybe there was something to that Taoist shit after all.

[miraculouslbcnreactions]

“Also because I want [Nino] to be more narratively important but that is a rant for another day.” And will that day be someday soon? Wink wink nudge nudge :3c

I am happy to give Nino some love, but before we do, we need to talk about how badly canon has failed him. The reason we need to have that talk is that the love I'm going to give is far more headcanon-y than I usually go in these analysis posts. For most characters, I can give a strong canon-based argument for a core characterization. For Nino? Well, I am pulling this stuff from canon, but I wouldn't exactly label it a "strong" argument. There are even elements of my take on Nino that you could label "grasping at straws".

And I'm happy to own that! I delight in giving Nino all the love he deserves even if it doesn't perfectly match canon, but that means that my Nino is less me leaning into the best parts of canon and more me shifting through canon, grabbing a few shinny bits, and weaving them into something that you may not agree with because my vision for Nino is to elevate him to match Alya in terms of narrative importance because I want the team show season two promised me even if I have to make it myself!

And if you don't want that? Then that's fine! I'm not arguing that everyone should adopt this take. My version of Nino is about as close to an OC as I get when writing fanfic. So let's get into it and talk about why I had to do that. (Also note that I have nothing against OCs. It's just that, when it comes to my own writing, I try to reserve them for original fiction or for very minor roles that no canon character could fill. Totally a matter of personal preference and not some sort of judgement.)

The Many Ways that Canon has Done Nino Dirty

If we look at what is arguably the main group of friends - Alya, Marinette, Adrien, and Nino - then we can see a clear base concept for the first three. Alya is the plucky reporter. Marinette is the headstrong leader. Adrien is the sweet goofball. Nino is... Alya's boyfriend? Adrien's best friend? Chris' older brother?

This is the problem that I was referring to above. Alya, Adrien, and Marinette have clear roles that you could pick out by just watching Origins. Nino doesn't. He doesn't even speak in part one and part two gives him all of six lines. These lines establish him as a nice guy since they're all about him being kind to Adrien, but that's about it. Here's one of them as an example:

Miss Bustier: Agreste, Adrien? Nino: (quietly to Adrien) You say "present". Adrien: (jumps up with his hand raised) Uh, present!

This is a cute moment for sure, but when I look at it, I can't tell you who Nino is supposed to be other than a nice guy, which isn't much to go on. Nice guys can fit a lot of roles.

This isn't necessarily a flaw. Some characters have roles that are immediately obvious and some characters don't. This second class of character usually just has a more complex role that will be discovered and defined based on their actions as the story goes on. However, because Miraculous' writing is all over the place, Nino gets screwed. Instead of his actions defining his nebulous role, his actions make his role impossible to pin down! Here are a few examples:

Nino the Protector:

Season two was big on the idea that miraculous had to be suited to their holders. That's why Chloe kept getting the bee as we saw in Malediktator:

Marinette: I must choose someone who's not impressed by people in power. Who can help me trap Malediktator. Huh?! Of course! That's it. (reaches for the Miraculous of the Bee)

And why did Nino get the turtle in Anansi?

Marinette: I need a protective Miraculous. (gasps, and points at the Turtle Miraculous Master Fu is wearing) That's the one I need, Master! (Master Fu gasps) Uh, if it's okay with you. Master Fu: (smiles at Wayzz, who nods to him) Do you have someone in mind, Marinette?  Marinette: Actually, I think I found just the right person.

Okay, cool, we finally have a strong defining trait for Nino! He's a protector! Or, at least, he was here. Other episodes go directly against this role such as this nonsense from Illusion:

Nino: What's up is Ladybug and Cat Noir don't have us to help them anymore. Alya: (nervously) Um, um— uh— what do you mean, "us"? Nino: Well, us, you Rena Rouge, me Carapace! (Alya kicks his leg underneath the table) Ouch! What's the big deal? We can tell Marinette and Adrien we used to be superheroes.

This first issue with this episode is that we see Nino out his and Alya's secret identities without her permission even though the resistance did NOT require an identity reveal to be a thing. In other words, our supposed protector is taking a big risk for no reason. Then he goes and does this:

Nino: Hence my plan. We're gonna film an akumatization. Alya: And how are you, Comrade Ketchup, gonna be in the know when and where this akumatization takes place? Nino: Easy, Comrade Beurre Maître d'Hôtel. I'm gonna make it happen.

Which leads to the four friends antagonizing Gabriel even though Nino knows how complex Adrien and Gabriel's relationship is. A move that makes no sense for a supposed protector because Gabriel was far from their only option. Nino could have picked anyone, but he went with the riskiest candidate possible, exposing his best friend to a potentially massive backlash.

Nino also doesn't even try to contact Ladybug and Chat Noir prior to this insane plan, thereby putting the whole city at unnecessary risk! What kind of protector purposely causes an akuma without also coming up with mitigation strategies to minimize the resulting damage?

Everything Nino does in this episode should disqualify him from ever holding the turtle again or, at the very least, he should have to redeem himself before holding the turtle again. This is especially true since he never apologizes for anything he did in Illusion and this is just one example of the issue. It's actually kind of hard to find moments where Nino acts as a protector even though he holds the miraculous of Protection. So is he supposed to be a protector? Who knows!

Nino, The Empath:

That first example was long, so we'll pick two quicker ones to flesh this out. The first one is how Nino and Adrien's relationship is defined. In Origins and the New York Special Nino is written as a kind and sensitive guy who is acting as Adrien's guide to dating and other elements of the real world:

Nino: Yup. I love Adrien, but he's like a baby chick that's just started cracking out of his egg. He has a hard time understanding the signals people send him. Alya: What signals? Marinette isn't exactly sending them clearly. I mean, look! What is she doing with her arms? Telling him what to do in case of an emergency landing or something? Nino:(sighs) If only this trip could help Adrien finally come out of his shell.

But then you have episodes like Animan where Adrien is Nino's guide to dating:

Nino: Shhh! You know I'm no good with the ladies, especially this one all of a sudden. I mean, dude, do I go up to her and crack her a joke? Shoot her a compliment? Invite her to the zoo? Play it serious? Adrien: Nino, you're way over-thinking this. "Invite her to the zoo", you serious? Nino: Well, they have this really cool new exhibit there. Adrien: Listen, just be yourself, man.

And episodes like Illusion (discussed above) and Psycomedian (see below) where Adrien is deeply uncomfortable and Nino doesn't notice:

Nino: See, dude? I told you! Hilarious, right? Adrien: Uh... (laughs nervously) Right! Really funny, Nino. Nino: I gotta show you his other sketches. It's insane that you don't know Harry Clown! (laughs)

Which might work if these episodes were about Nino learning a lesson, but they're not. Nino learns nothing, so is he generally in tune with others or is he kind of oblivious to other peoples' feelings? And why did Nino ever think that Adrien was a good source of romantic advice if he also thinks that Adrien is "a baby chick"? Pick a lane people!

Nino's Hobbies

Our final source of confusion is trying to define what Nino even enjoys doing. Horrificator and Queen Banana have him playing around as an amature film maker, but we also see him acting as an amature DJ with the wiki even claiming that he's the head of the school's radio station. So which of these things is his passion? Movies or music?

To be clear, I think it's fine to have multiple passions, but this is a story. You want to keep your characters' non-story-relevant hobbies kind of simple, especially when the character in question is a relatively minor side character who rarely gets much screen time. It's why Alix is only really into roller skating and why Nathaniel is only really into art. You don't want them to be more complex than that.

Even the main characters get this "keep it simple" treatment with Marinette only really being into fashion and Alya only really being into her blog. The girls don't need two demanding passions that would eat up all of their free time, but that's what Nino gets! Film and music are both incredibly demanding passions and it's hard to balance a character who is into both who is also an active superhero. That's a lot for one dude to do well!

I've actually seen fics that cast Nino as wanting to be a director and fics that make him want to be a professional DJ because canon really isn't clear about this pretty basic aspect of his character, but you do need to pick a lane when writing anything that gives Nino a career and so people seem to pick a passion at random.

My Version of Nino

By now, we're hopefully in agreement that canon has made a mess of Nino's character to the point where it's near impossible to say "this is who Nino is supposed to be." However, if you want to write Nino, then you do kind of have to pick a characterization to go with, so here's what I've come up with. Feel free to embrace it or reject it, but know that you will pry my version of Nino out of my cold dead hands because I utterly adore him.

Since Nino is Carapace, I base everything about him around the concept of "protect and defend" because he needs to feel like he deserves his heroic alter ego. I do not want to make canon's mistake of giving him a miraculous that massively contradicts his writing. Especially when that writing makes him feel interchangeable with other characters. At this point, no one from canon screams "turtle miraculous" unless you want to give it to Adrien since he's Ladybug's defender.

I also designed Nino around Alya and Adrien as those will arguably be his most important relationships. He should feel like a perfect fit for boyfriend and best friend respectively. I also took Marinette into consideration because he's going to be part of her team/friend group, so he should work with her, too.

What all that means is that I basically said "okay, this is where Nino is supposed to fit in the story and this is the dumpster fire that canon gave us, how do I pull pieces from the fire and paste them together to make a character that fits who Nino should have been?"

To really get into my version of Nino, I'd almost have to give you a fic to read, but that's way too much for a Tumblr post, so let's keep this high-level and just look at some of my notes on Nino from my lore Bible:

Nino is a major audiophile. He loves listening to music and watching movies/TV shows to study how they play with sound. He wants to be an audio engineer when he's older, but he also has a general passion for all things music and film. He’ll listen to any genre and watch almost any movie or show. He loves to take charge of the music at events so that the music really fits the crowd (and so it sounds good). It isn’t unheard of for him to go see an unknown band or an odd indie film on his own. This will become a major bonding point for Nino and Adrien because of the influence of Adrien's mother. Nino has seen all of Emilie's films and loves them. It will also bond him and Alya as his knowledge of film making will allow him to help her learn the art of filming now that she's doing complex things like actions shots and editing together multiple recordings.

Nino is generally pretty laid back and likes to hear people out. His reaction to confrontation is to try to calm everyone down so that they can get to the heart of the issue. He wants everyone to get along, but he's also not going to let someone take the blame when they shouldn't. Nino protects the innocent.

Nino is incredibly protective of the people he loves. If someone he cares about is in danger, his peaceful nature goes straight out the window. He’s the kind of person who would happily take a bullet for his friends and family. This will lead to him following Alya around once the hero stuff starts because he wants to keep her safe. Never let Alya go out alone if Nino is around or even just aware that a fight is happening. Alya thinks "scoop" and Nino thinks "my Alya sense is tingling." He's NOT there to stop her from doing what she loves, he's just there to be her spotter who lets her focus on filming while he watches for danger, though that will initially be a struggle for him. Treat this as his audition/training for Carapace where he learns to balance protective instincts with getting the job done so that he's ready to perfectly take on his miraculous.

When Nino’s folks split up, his mother insisted that the kids should go to therapy to help process things. They had individual and family counseling. Nino was actually pretty cool with the divorce as he’d seen it coming, but his brother was really affected by it, so Nino spent his time working on ways to help Chris (and being told that he was a brother, not a parent, but he still wanted to help). He learned a lot from going through it and it’s why he’s so good at dealing with emotional issues. He’s also good at not taking those burdens on himself. He wants to help, but knows that it's your battle. Marinette often looks to Nino for guidance on emotional issues because she knows that she's terrible at navigating them. She has given him full permission to stop her when she's too focused on solutions over support. All of the friends will help Adrien figure out social situations, but Nino will be the main guide as he's the one with the strongest skills in that area. Plus Adrien makes Nino's protective big brother instincts go crazy.

Nino’s a bit of a loner by choice. He has "weird" hobbies that easily lend themselves to being done alone and he doesn't have any interest in "forcing" his hobbies on someone who doesn't actually enjoy them, so he spends a lot of time by himself and rarely invites others to share in his interests. He only does that when he thinks that they'll actually enjoy what he's sharing. He doesn’t mind this, but he’s also a very welcoming individual who doesn’t like to see people left out, so he’ll come out of his shell when he sees someone who needs a friend. This usually leads to him making friends who soon become closer with others, but still view him as a casual friend. He’s cool with that. He's just happy that they found their people. Adrien will be the first friend who really stays Nino’s due to an understanding of Nino’s “weird” hobbies. After all, Adrien’s the son of an actress. He’s used to weird indie films and discussions of cinematography. I'd even say that he revels in it and realizes that he has missed it desperately since his mom got too sick to do that kind of thing. Basically, Nino will fill a spot in Adrien's heart that Adrien didn't even know was empty. Adrien can listen to Nino talk about cinematography for hours and never get bored. Before Adrien, no one knew that Nino was this talkative!

If anyone wants more insights into this topic, feel free to send an ask, but I think we'll call this post done now because it's SUPER long.

[4ragon]

Hi JJ!! What about Klapollo and those funny stupid themed valentines day card packs? (Gavinners pack maybe...) I think there could be some funny klapollo shenanigans with those :3c

“Wait wait wait wait no, hold on, back up. Gaventines?!”

“Well yeah,” Trucy said, flourishing the small paper monstrosity into Apollo’s face. “What did you think it was?”

“I don’t know, a normal Valentine’s Day card?” Apollo snapped back, eyes crossed as he stared down at the card in her hands. It was purple of course, and glossy. On the front was Klavier Gavin’s smug face as he pointed, the words ‘OBJECTION! Won’t you be mine?’ emblazoned across the front. “That's not even a pun. Why the hell did you buy this?”

“Because it’s perfect!” Trucy replied with a smile, hopping up to sit on the edge of Apollo’s desk, kicking her legs. “Plus, I figured you weren’t getting any Valentine’s stuff elsewhere.”

“Why you think this thing is perfect is—hey, wait a second, what’s that supposed to mean?” Apollo protested, swiping the card out of her hands. “What makes you think I don’t get any Valentine’s stuff, huh?”

“Call it a magician’s intuition,” she replied smoothly. “Besides, I’ve never seen you in any other holiday spirit, why should this one be any different?”

Apollo grumbled, glaring at her with as much heat as he could muster. On the one hand, she had a point. On the other… “W-Well, I don’t see you rolling in Valentine’s day gifts,” he snapped.

Trucy gasped at him, and then had the audacity to pretend to look hurt. “You’re so mean sometimes, Apollo,” she murmured, lip wobbling.

Apollo narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you dare start.”

“And here I’d been hoping maybe daddy could’ve at least bought me some chocolate or something,” she continued on. “But, you know, money’s been so tight lately…”

Apollo’s jaw clenched. “Please. I’m not falling for this schtick again.”

“O-Oh, you’re right, sorry,” Trucy said softly. “Hope I didn’t ruin your day with my silly little card.”

Apollo’s eye twitched. Then, groaning, he glanced into his desk drawer. “...Listen, if you really want Valentine’s Day chocolate, I, uh…have this chocolate chip granola bar—”

“Wow, thanks, Polly!” As he pulled it out, Trucy swiped it, pulling out her magic panties. “Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to put it with the others.”

“The othe—I knew you got chocolate already!” Apollo snapped as the bar disappeared. “Give that back, you know I keep missing breakfast.”

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Almost immediately, Trucy was on her feet.

“Oh yay, there’s my other Valentine’s Day plan!”

“Are you kidding me? Who the—”

“Guten morgen, Fraulein!”

A second purple monstrosity entered the vicinity, and Apollo groaned. “Really? Gavin?”

“Ach, and Herr Forehead,” Klavier said, leaning over and waving. “What a pleasant surprise. Come here often?”

“I work here,” Apollo replied flatly. “And I know for a fact you don’t come here often, so care to explain?”

Klavier laughed. “Ah, you’re not making me feel very welcome. But, nein, I have a delivery to make.” As he said so, he pulled out a basket from behind his back, filled with chocolate-covered strawberries on wooden skewers.

For a split second, Apollo felt a shock of panic, fear, and almost hope, before Klavier turned toward Trucy. “Now Fraulein, can you make sure your father at least sees these before you start eating them?”

Trucy gasped, looking mock-offended. “Of course!”

Apollo rolled his eyes, leaning glumly on his hand. “Alright, well, is that everything? Don’t you have work to do?”

Klavier shot him that rockstar smile. “It’s true, the work never ends,” he said. “Well, I suppose I’ll…”

There was a pause, as Klavier seemed to notice something. Apollo frowned, following his line of sight. And then, he flushed. “Wait it’s not what—”

“Why Herr Forehead, is that a Gaventine’s card?” Klavier was smiling wider now, an amused gleam in his eyes. “I didn’t think you were such a fan.”

“I-I-I’m not, I was just—Trucy was—”

“Oh my gosh, Apollo!” Trucy gushed suddenly, hand over her mouth. “You got Mr. Gavin a Valentine?! That's so sweet!”

Apollo froze. “H…Huh?”

“Well.” Klavier crossed the room, leaning down, hand setting on top of the card as he leaned over Apollo’s desk. “I can’t exactly turn down a fan, can I?”

“What—But I—No!” Apollo grabbed at the card, but already Klavier had it in his grasp. “It’s not mine! Trucy was—I didn’t—I wouldn’t spend my money on that!”

“Now Herr Forehead, there’s no need to be so modest,” Klavier said, flipping open the card with his thumb. “I don’t mind that…”

And then Klavier trailed off. Apollo watched as Klavier’s eyes scanned the paper. As he did, his face seemed to change. The smile slowly faded. His eyes widened slightly.

Suddenly, Apollo was sweating. “A-A-Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is, uh, that’s not, um…Prosecutor Gavin…?”

“...Well.” Klavier blinked. He looked up at Apollo. Down at the card. Up at Apollo again. And then he coughed, smiling a bit, not his usual rockstar grin but something a little more subdued. “I-I didn’t think—err…” Another cough, and Klavier straightened up, and, wait, was he blushing…? “Danke, Apollo, that’s…that’s very sweet of you.”

“...huh?”

“Does six o’clock work for you, perhaps? I was thinking about working late, but I suppose Valentine’s Day only comes once a year.”

Apollo blinked. Apollo blinked again. “S…Six?”

“Ach, good, six it is then.”

“What?”

“Oh, Mr. Gavin!” Trucy interrupted suddenly, making Apollo jump because oh yeah Trucy was there. “Don’t you need to get back to the Prosecutor’s office?”

“Ach, you’re right, I’m already running behind schedule. Herr Edgeworth isn’t a fan of tardiness.” He turned, card still clutched in his hand. “I’ll see you tonight, Herr Forehead.”

“Wha—Wait—I dont—”

And then Klavier was gone, out the door, whistling something Apollo couldn’t quite place.

Apollo stared as the door swung shut by itself. He already felt himself breaking into a cold sweat. “Trucy, what did you write on that card?”

“What card?” Trucy quipped, walking off with her edible arrangement under her arm.

[starrydust-npc]

Normal about all of the primal mers yes uh huh

Hehehehe~ There's still a couple that haven't been revealed yet :3c Until then, I offer a doodle of silly Eclipse~

[ristoranteivorykeys]

graduation [octazinelle: high tide fic submission]

in the few months they have before getting ready to leave for internship, floyd and jade go through the turbulence that future uncertainties bring: where will they go, what will they do, but most importantly... what will happen to their relationship with azul?

ft. floyd leech, jade leech, and azul ashengrotto

╰┈➤ 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: hello hello!! i participated in a zine titled octazinelle: high tide! you can find the full zine through here~ this was a very fun project and i'm so excited to post the fic i wrote for you guys ^^ i really care about this fic so much, so there will be additional notes that i will leave somewhere :3c don't worry, they won't be hard to find fufufu

“Floyd Leech.”

Said student is just climbing down the steps of the lecture room when he hears his name being called in an austere manner. Any remaining students in the classroom cast Floyd that ‘oh boy’ look as they leave the room. Floyd looks to the teacher’s table where Professor Trein stares at him sternly. He returns the stare with a miffed look, but he approaches the professor nonetheless.

“This is the second time this week that I have caught you sleeping in my class,” Trein rebukes. “This may be your last semester in Night Raven College before you go on your internship, but that doesn’t mean that you can be negligent in my class.”

“Uh huh.”

“Don’t give me that attitude, Leech. I do not want to give any penalties so late into the semester, but if I catch you sleeping one more time, I will. Do I make myself clear, Leech?”

“Yes, sir.” 

“You may now go.” 

Floyd steps out of the classroom with the same expression as he wore when getting called out. Damn Professor Red Squid, if you don’t wanna give detention, then just don’t, he thinks to himself. Meh, oh well. I don’t feel hungry at all, should I even go to the canteen? But where do I even wanna go? Everywhere’s so noisy. 

He walks for a bit, hands in his pockets.

Ah wait. 

There’s the supplies arriving today for Mostro Lounge. 

Floyd barely notices his frown growing ever so slightly deeper, but students walking along the same path as him instinctively step aside. Nobody in their right mind would dare interrupt a disgruntled Leech twin. 

I’m not going to help out with those. Azul can suffer with those all he wants.

“Floyd! There you are!” 

Floyd stops in his tracks. He does not look at the classmate who briskly walks up to him, but he already feels the annoyance rushing to his head. 

“Floyd, we got a paper due in two days,” the classmate yells. “We just need your part, and we'll be done! When are you gonna send it in the gc?”

“Go away.”

“Hah? Don’t give me that!” The groupmate’s voice raises in anger. “We have a literal group paper to submit, and we just need your part so that we can submit it earlier!”

Floyd faces him finally, but this time, his eyes are dilated, teeth are displayed, and brows are furrowed. An all-too familiar menacing expression. “I said go away.”

“Eep!” The classmate takes a step back, expression immediately shifting to fear for his life. “O-ok ok! Just- just submit before the 11:59 deadline in two days! That’s all I needed to say, ok!”

And right after, the student runs away.

Floyd huffs. He has now made up his mind on where to go. 

Jade is wiping the sweat off of his face in the locker rooms when one of his Octavinelle classmates approaches him. “Hey, Azul’s calling for you,” he says. “He’s by the gates right now.”

“Oh?” Jade looks up in confusion. “I thought Floyd was supposed to be with him right now.”

“Well, he’s not there now,” the classmate replies while scratching his head. “They need more backup and Azul’s calling for you.” 

“Ah, I see.” He smiles. “I shall be there, then.”

The classmate leaves the locker rooms, leaving Jade all by himself. The rest of the class has already left, eager for lunch. 

Jade slows down in cleaning himself up.

Azul’s name brings back a rip that’s been tearing at his heart. It burns in the way that electricity probably burns, maybe to a lesser degree: his body stops working the way it usually does, and his chest still reels from a shock of pain. It’s not physical by any means, though by the Sea Witch, he wishes it was. It would have been so much easier to deal with. He’d be shipped to the best hospital, all bills easily paid for, and he’d be recovering well back in Octavinelle. Or if he dies, then that is that. No more pain to feel.

No, it’s a harder kind of pain. It’s the kind of pain that makes him want to tear flesh and bone with teeth and claws, the kind of hurt that urges him to destroy a ship, the kind of ache that makes him want to burn his already burning eyes. It’s the kind of pain that won’t go away even if he does all three.

Jade breathes in. Hold it. Breathe out. Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. Breathe in… breathe out…

He cannot afford to lose himself now, whether by wrath or by tears. 

He packs his bags, changes back to his uniform, and leaves the lockers. His light footsteps are overshadowed by the sounds of enthusiastic jogs to the cafeteria in the corridors. Jade takes a moment to breathe in the afternoon sunny air, letting out a bit more of his worries out of his lungs before he walks down the stairs and through Main Street. 

And soon, he finds himself nearing the tall gates of the school, where a group of students are gathered around large boxes. 

It annoys Jade that the gleam of silver hair stirs mixed emotions. On one hand, his troubles are dashed completely from seeing the very person he keeps close. On the other hand, it is the same person who’s making him go through hell.

He swiftly shifts his focus to the situation in front of him. Some of the other boxes should have been on the way to the Mostro Lounge by this time, yet there are still several of them that the other Octavinelle students have to carry. It isn’t surprising—after all, they decided to upgrade a few things, in preparation for the next dorm leader. Supplies that a simple run to Sam’s shop won’t cover, no matter how much he claims to have it all in stock. 

“Be extra careful with that. That tableware costs us quite a fortune.” Standing by the boxes with a clipboard resting on his arm, Azul watches his dorm mates as he writes notes on the clipboard. He has his dorm leader facade on, serious and stern, but even from a distance, Jade can see his slightly nervous gaze towards the supplies. 

As another pair leaves with a heavy box, Azul looks at them before his eyes fall on him. “Jade, good you made it on time.”

“Hello, Azul,” Jade greets. “I thought that Floyd was supposed to help with the supplies.”

“Well, he’s not here now,” Azul answers, frowning from annoyance. “I was wondering if you had any idea as to where he is right now.”

“I don’t. His history class should have ended 10 minutes ago.” 

“Hmph, nevermind. We need to get all of this into the lounge.” He gestures to the boxes. “All the boxes are complete, and we’ll do a final count of all the supplies once everything has been moved there.”

“I see.” Jade nods. “Will you need me to assist you?”

“No, you may enjoy your lunch break after helping us move these boxes,” Azul answers. “I’ll be making my next successor do that. It’s a part of his learning, after all.” 

“Ah. I see.” 

It annoys him to feel that same shock of hurt returning to his chest. 

A bemused look crosses Azul’s face. “Does that offend you,” he teases. “I never took you for one to be tilted by that.”

Jade blinks. “Why Azul, whatever makes you think I’d be offended over that?” He smiles, with a bit more effort than he’s used to. “You must be imagining things from how little rest you have in passing on your position to the little siren.”

“You exaggerate.” He keeps his clipboard and pen into his bag. “We need to move. Jade, carry that box over there.” He points to one of the smaller boxes, marked with the word FRAGILE, and picks up another box. 

And wordlessly, Jade follows, carrying a box that must contain brand new tea sets. New tea sets that remind him that a new dorm leader and manager of the Mostro Lounge will take over. 

That his term and Azul’s will end because they’ll move up to 4th year and go their separate ways. 

Jade resists the urge to break them. He’ll carry these then find Floyd. 

Back at home, the schools of fish would band together, staying close until Floyd swam past them, splitting their perfect formation. Together, apart. Together, apart. 

Together. Apart.

Separation was not new to Floyd at all. In an “eat or be eaten” world, fish and merfolk alike live with the thought that the people closest to them may be gone the next day. Floyd has hunted before, has fought before. He’s even the one who said goodbye to his parents when leaving for Night Raven College.

But he said goodbye with the promise of seeing them again after school is done. 

He stares down at the river that runs below the bridge. This spot is rarely ever frequented by students at lunchtime, if only because everyone else is either eating in the canteen, having meetings, or just being with friends, and the bridge is on the other path away from the Hall of Mirrors. Besides Octavinelle, it feels the closest to home on this campus: here, he can watch the current flow, and the fish that live below its clean stream. 

Home, huh? Floyd wonders if home will still feel like home once he returns from Night Raven College. 

It will be the same dark passageways and bioluminescent lights, the same faces but all grown up. Except that he isn’t a child that can pick fights with anyone and nab their scales as a prize, he is to be stuck with running the family business of making deals, expanding connections, beating up people who betray their trust. Pretty much like what he already does with Azul now. 

Except that the boss that would stand with him and Jade is not Azul at all. 

The fish in the river swim with no obstacle in their path. They may split apart to avoid the occasional rock, but they would be together again. Together, apart. Together. In the small space that they share, there is no vast ocean that opens up new paths for them to split ways. Not until they swim down the cliff and into the open sea. 

Floyd has never envied river dwellers until now. 

Jade walks behind Azul going to Mostro Lounge. It’s something of a routine that started in Night Raven College. When Azul walks, he and Floyd follow him from behind. He doesn’t remember how or when it started. Probably started to make Azul’s image look powerful: he is in the front, wearing a coat that imposes authority, and Jade and Floyd standing at the back makes him look almost impossible to touch. 

Regardless of the hows or the whys, it’s a position that has always given him comfort. From behind, Jade can watch Azul. He can see if Azul is pleased with something by the bounce in his step, or if he’s pissed by the clack of his heels. And from the front, Azul can’t read Jade since he’s always looking forward, and that lets Jade startle him with a random brutal teasing remark. 

Right now, though, he wishes to not look at Azul. 

Azul appears to be beaming, and Jade knows exactly why. He’s found the perfect successor for not only leadership of Octavinelle but also manager for his prized restaurant. He’s gotten accepted in all the places he applied for his internship. 

He’s gotten accepted already into the university that he aims to go to.

Jade vividly remembers the way Azul grinned from ear to ear when he received the email. He remembers the audible, “Yes! Yes, I got in!” that almost sounded teary-eyed. He remembers Floyd saying that they should celebrate over some drinks. He remembers smiling to the best of his abilities while saying congratulations for being accepted. 

That was two weeks ago. He’s said many fake things in his life, and he would never say sorry for them. But until now, the heartless congratulations weighs heavily in his conscience. 

It’s simple, really: Azul has been working hard all his life to achieve his dreams. And Jade was there to witness the journey, from the ideas to the headaches to the defeats to the victories. It’s a huge milestone for Azul to get to stay on land and study in a place where he feels he will thrive. So it’s unfair really, to not be able to celebrate such an achievement happily. 

And yet, Jade can’t bring himself to. 

Their relationship started as something transactional. Tweels keep his secrets, Azul lets them in his plans. Tweels support him, Azul entertains them. And if Azul fails to entertain, then they will drop him like plastic to the chute. There and done. That’s supposed to be their relationship. 

So why then does it hurt to hear that Azul got accepted? Why does it hurt to think about how in a few months, he won’t see Azul as much as the present? Why does it hurt to think about the uncertainty of when they will see each other again? 

“Jade, you can put down the box over there.”

Jade blinks. He’s at Mostro Lounge. Has he been so deep in thought that he didn’t realize when he arrived?

Schooling his expression, he puts down the box on the counter that Azul gestures to, unaware of the concerned expression on Azul’s face. 

Floyd doesn’t know when he started staring into nothingness to gaze at memories, but he’s now seeing the stone stage from middle school, where his younger self is playing drums to his brother’s bass and someone’s piano. 

He remembers, he was getting irritated with the piano melody, and at the time he couldn’t pinpoint why, except that it lacked something. Now that he thinks about it, it’s because that pianist’s playing had no life. No vigor, no passion, just technique that wouldn’t get anyone dancing. “Next,” he had said and stopped playing. The pianist was protesting. Floyd forgot what he said, just that he protested that he wasn’t done playing, but he didn’t care enough to hear about it.

“Everyone sucks, Jade,” he threw his sticks to the ground. “No one’s good enough to be part of our band. Let’s just go.” And he and Jade—who was bigger than him at the time—left the small auditorium of their school. And it’s a blur, Floyd doesn’t remember why he and Jade didn’t go home right away, but he remembers very well the syncopated melodies coming from the piano they forgot to close. 

And he remembers the gasp he made, the way his heart was stirred from how alive the music sounded. 

And he remembers how quickly he swam back inside to see who’s playing, and his wide-eyed gaze when he spotted the familiar octopus.

“Hey hey, that was so cool,” he said to the flustered Azul. “Play some more, play some more!” 

“Huh? No way, I have to go soon!”

But he didn’t let him go. He insisted he play the piano as he picked up his sticks and played a beat. “Come on, just one song! Then you can go!”

And he started his beat. And when it was just him for a long moment, Floyd had wondered if Azul left. But the sound of an E minor reached his ears, and the next moment, Azul’s playing was matching to the beat of the drums. And his music had heart. It had spirit, it had technique, it had passion. 

And the best part? Azul matched his rhythm when nobody else did. 

“I knew I’d find you here, Floyd.”

Eyes turning away from his reflection in the water, Floyd looks up to the face that he’s known since birth. Jade, impeccably presentable despite having PE class earlier, walks towards Floyd, leaning on the railing of the bridge he stands on. But he does not go near him. 

“What do you want,” Floyd asks. 

“We had a new batch of supplies arrive at the Lounge today,” Jade answers. “You were supposed to help out with the unpacking.”

He only answers with a curt hum before turning back to the water below. 

He hears a sigh. And footsteps approaching.

“You’re thinking about last last week, aren’t you?”

Floyd turns again to Jade. He’s by the bridge railing now, same side as him, but he continues to keep a respectable distance. Jade doesn’t look at him directly either, his gaze directed at the horizon ahead of them. 

He’s thinking about it too.

“Yeah, you could say that,” he answers. “It’s just, really ass, y’know?”

Floyd believes that in spite of their identical genetics, they are two people with different identities, dreams, and beliefs. And don’t get him wrong, it is a lot better that way to have individuality. But deep down, there is a comfort knowing that Jade probably feels the same feeling that leaves Floyd dizzy with frustration, that binds his chest with a mix of anger and sadness. And Sea Witch knows, Floyd needs that comfort now. 

“‘Ass’, you say,” Jade repeats. “Tell me about it.” 

A beat of silence passes between them. 

“It’s just that. It takes half a fish brain to know that Azul’s got grand plans after graduation. Get into the best business school, build his own corporation, build another company, and a third company. And I’ve known this for Sea Witch knows how long, and it was all fine, I didn’t care that much, but then…”

“...But then the letter came in.” Jade fills in. 

“Yeah,” Floyd emphatically answers. “That damned acceptance letter from whosit business university came in. Like, I don’t know why, but it just made everything feel… real. That Azul’s really gonna go somewhere else. And I hate that it’s been hitting me like this for the last two weeks. I can’t focus well, I’m pissed off, Trein’s told me off about sleeping. It’s so ass.”

The silent air between the twins weighs heavier. Floyd’s eyes briefly look at the fish in the river again—the damned fish that he wants to throw a rock at so they separate too—before he turns to Jade. “How ‘bout you? Was it also the letter?”

Jade doesn’t answer right away. Floyd understands; in moments like these, Jade hesitates to speak his mind, even to him. It’s part of their nature to be cowardly, after all, just that Jade exhibits it more between the two of them. 

“... Somehow, yes, but if I were to think about it… it’s actually been a while now,” he finally answers.

“Eh? Really?”

“I knew down the line that there would be farewells to be made,” Jade says. “Like you said, Azul has already made plans for himself, and he invests in those plans, years in advance. But there’s always that part of me that wonders… if there’s space for us in those plans.” 

Floyd finds himself inhaling sharply at those words. 

“I see his goals coming to fruition, and it pains me to say that I can’t even properly support him. The letter, the new supplies, the little siren he’s going to appoint… they’re all reminders that it will all change.” Jade smiles, but in pain. “Azul won’t be the dorm leader, I won’t be the vice leader, and we won’t do the things we used to do. And we won’t see each other until perhaps the next VDC. And when we graduate… would he call an end to our agreements? Would we grow so busy that we become strangers again? We would always say that our relationship is merely transactional and that we would leave him if we get bored, but…”

Jade stops, and the air weighs even heavier. Floyd feels taken back to the first day on land, when breathing with lungs felt heavy and difficult. 

Suddenly, Jade laughs. “What clownfish have we become?”

Floyd too joins his twin in mirth. “Can’t help it, Azul makes me feel understood.”

He raises a brow. “Is it gonna be about the first time you played together with him?”

“I mean, it’s how it started,” he answers. He doesn’t realize the small smile that settles on his face as he remembers once more. “Like, back then, everyone just kinda avoided, y’know? And that’s fine, at least, I thought it was. ‘Twas fun and all to be intimidating. But no matter what I’d do, Azul always matches me. He knows exactly what to play to my rhythm. And even in how we work, he knows what’s the stuff I’d like to do or the stuff I’d do well in. It just feels nice.”

It feels too nice. 

Too nice that if it disappears, it will leave his heart bound tightly by melancholy. 

“…Hey, I can’t be the only sappy one here.” Floyd eyes Jade. “C’mon Jade, share too what’s made you appreciate Azul.”

“I already shared a lot earlier,” Jade says defensively.

“Heyyy, be fair at least. I know you have your own thing.”

“What else is there to say? You already said everything.”

“Liar. I know how you started reading your books more after meeting him.” 

“So? Those were lessons that we had to learn as well.”

“Uh huh sure. Then explain why you’ve only gotten better in everything you do after meeting Azul.”

Jade glares at him. 

Floyd grins in response. “Gotcha.”

A beat of silence, then Jade sighs. “If he makes you feel understood, then he makes me feel capable.”

“How so?”

“One reason.” He puts up one free hand, with one finger up. “He’s demanding.”

Floyd chuckles. “That’s an understatement.”

“You’re right.” Jade grins, teeth flashing. “He’s exigent. Making us run around the school to do 5 things at once, on top of schoolwork. Even before NRC, he was just like that. I assumed he was insane. Until now, I still think he’s insane.”

“You say that, but you don’t look like you’re complaining at all.”

“Because thanks to that, I wasn’t pretending to be good at something anymore.” His next smile is closed. Softer. “I went from barely comprehending a textbook and barely lifting a seashell with my magic to understanding contract language and unlocking my unique ability. He made me do things, and I planned to just make someone else do it and pretend it was me.” 

“Ohhh.” Floyd’s eyes widened with remembrance. “And then he caught you.”

“Yes.” Jade shakes his head at the thought. “And I was expecting him to laugh at me, but he didn’t. All he did was sigh and teach me. Magic, studies, law, something about the way he taught those things clicked something in me. And even the things that he didn’t teach but always talked about, like culinary and how people behave, I was able to absorb things and got better. Dare I say,” a smirk forms on his face, “I’m better than Azul in some things.”

“Like flight class.” Floyd grins.

“Like flight class,” Jade repeats smugly. 

And they stop talking. Jade turns his gaze to the distant horizon, looking at something farther than the blue of the sky. Meanwhile, Floyd glances back at the river. He understands that Jade is done talking personal. But it’s fine for him. He can almost hear the unspoken thoughts. Once Azul leaves, who’s going to be the pianist in their little band that makes their every day exciting? Once Azul leaves, who’s going to tell them that they can do it? 

Once Azul leaves, who’s going to understand them?

“So this is where you two are.”

Simultaneously, Floyd and Jade whip their heads around. Floyd swears his heart almost leapt to his chest when he saw those familiar blue eyes. 

One hand in his pocket, Azul stands on the threshold of the bridge. He and Jade fully turn around as he walks towards them until he’s directly in front of both of them. 

“Hello, Azul,” Jade greets, like the conversation a while ago never happened. “How was teaching your next successor what he has to do?”

“Went well,” he answers. “His prior experiences already reassure me, but he’s also demonstrated that he knows what he’s doing. Currently, he and our other dorm mates are taking care of the supplies.”

“Weird that you’re not being so strict, considering how much you value your restaurant,” Floyd comments. “You’re not even gonna be there to make sure nothing’s going wrong?”

“I trust that things are going well with my new successor in charge. I’ve taught him very well enough,” Azul says. “But more importantly… I have matters to discuss with the both of you.”

He turns his head to look at Jade. “Jade, you’ve been out of focus lately. Just a while ago, when you were bringing the box of teacups to the lounge, you were so deep in thought, you didn’t look like you were aware of where you were going. And even during work hours, you haven’t been as sharp as you usually are. A few professors have commented on your slouched posture as well.”

Jade’s eyes widen in surprise. 

“And Floyd.” Azul turns to look at Floyd. “Professors have reported to me that you’ve either been asleep during lectures or interrupting class with an outburst. You’ve also been moodier than usual, and it shows in your cooking and your behavior. I’ve heard a few students rant about you in group projects.”

Floyd briefly remembers the group mate that approached him earlier. 

“So what are you getting at exactly, Azul,” Jade asks. “Even we have our off days as well.”

Azul casts him a pointed look. “Off days for two weeks straight.” 

He receives no quip in reply. 

He crosses his arms. “Jade, Floyd.” His neutral serious tone changes. It quivers slightly. He’s worried. “I know you two well enough that there’s something going on. Is there something that happened?”

Floyd looks away. Jade does as well.

Floyd hates the concern in his tone. It makes him want to break. It makes him want to be upfront about his feelings and how it’s been bothering him. 

But how can someone like him really tell someone like Azul that you’re afraid to lose him somehow? How can he retract all the times he said that their relationship is all transaction and no emotional connection? How do you even start bearing something so vulnerable? 

They must be the same questions that Jade is grappling with now. Jade, who’s usually good at worming his way out of any conversation, has nothing to say to leave this topic. 

Azul sighs, breaking the long silence. “Is this something that has to do with me?”

The twins stiffen. 

Floyd can feel Azul’s gaze towards him. 

A tense moment passes. 

“... I had a feeling.”

He finally looks at him but in confusion. Jade is also facing him with wide eyes. 

Azul exhales through his nose. “You don’t have to tell me anything about what you’re feeling right now. If at all.” He turns around, preparing to leave. His head is bowed down, not letting either twin see his expression. “But I just want to let you know, I’m always here if you need me. Not just for this, but for anything, even if in the future.”

Floyd’s breath hitches.

“Do you… really mean that?” Jade asks, almost meekly.

Azul looks at Jade in puzzlement. “Why wouldn’t I? You two have been with me for all these years, even in my weakest hours. It’s not like I’m going to leave you even after we graduate.”

“Really,” Floyd asks. “Even when you get really busy with university and we’re running our family business?”

“Well, I won’t deny that we will be busy,” he answers. “But I’m not letting go of you two just because of that. You know me too well, after all. And you’ve supported me all these years, it would be embarrassing to leave that unpaid.”

“You mean that?”

“Have I ever broken a promise? If you want, I can even put that on a contract and have you sign it.”

In one single breath, the binding sadness and worry that tightened Floyd’s chest leaves. 

Without thinking, he moves towards Azul and wraps his arms around his slim frame. He ignores the surprised gasp as he buries his face on his shoulder. His breathing feels lighter than it has ever been the past two weeks. 

He feels Jade joining in, hugging Azul from the other side and burying his face on the other shoulder. His breathing sounds even to any person, but to Floyd, he can hear a slight quiver, like Jade is trying to hold back tears. 

“Is… is this what it’s been all about, all this time,” Azul finally asks. His hands move to pat their heads, a motion that always comforted the twins. “You two are strange for worrying about this type of thing.” 

Despite his words, Floyd can hear the smile in Azul’s voice.

[space-woomy]

22. Agent 24 >:3c

From this ask game! (I hope)

22. Nap

"I...Am fines, Molly..." Eight slurred, her hands struggling to stay still as they titled from side to side over top the weapon she was working on.

"Uh-huh, sure you are." Molly insinuated. "I mean, you look absolutley amazing." They leaned down and picked up the end of one of Eight's tentacle. It's color was a much duller magenta than the rest of it. They let go, and it flopped down past Eight's shoulder.

"Molly...hun, I have to do work...no matter how tireds I am." Eight sighed.

She had been meticulously working to clean out every inch of this weapon for a few days now. It was a special order that needed to be done by next week. It was plenty of time for Eight, but she had put a lot of stress on herself because it was "special".

"Eight, please..." Molly leaned down and wrapped their arms around Eight. "You can work on this tomorrow...that's what you always tell me."

"I knooooow...But I want to work on this..." Eight wined.

"...do you?" Molly questioned.

"...no..." Eight admitted. "But what else am I going to do? I feels...too tired to do anything..."

"Then take a nap, dummy." Molly stated.

"...I am unfamiliar with what that is."

"You...Y-You don't know what a nap is?" Molly queried.

"...Yes. What is it?" Eight asked.

Molly took a second before responding. "Well, it's...it's going to sleep, but not at night. and not for several hours...hopefully..."

They were kind of taken aback by Eight's answer. They doubted that the concept of a nap itself was unfamiliar to her. It was most likely a combination of the inkling word for it and, unfortunately, probably due to never having been allowed one back in the military.

"It sounds inefficient." Eight remarked.

"It's not." Molly stated.

"...still, I am...*yawn*...I have already committed myself to doing this today." Eight said.

"...how about this..." Molly started. They leaned closer to Eight's ear and gently nuzzled the side of her head. "...you take a nap for an hour or two, and then get back to work on this, ok? Somethin' to give you a bit of energy."

"..." Eight silently debated the choice in her head.

"...I'll join you if you want..." Molly suggested.

"...you will nap with me?" Eight inquired.

"Yep...get aaaaaaall nice and cuddled up...be all warm..." Molly whispered as they gently rubbed Eight's forearms. "...I'll let you be the big spoon~..." That was the final tipping point to convince Eight.

"...hehe...ok..." Eight relinquished. She set down the small tools in her hands and took off the goggles around her head, setting them down on the table. As she began to get up, Molly picked her up from her seat, holding her in their arms.

"oh!" Eight gasped. "H-hun...you do not have to be doing this..." Eight smiled.

"Nope. I don't. But I want to." Molly said flatly. They carried their girlfriend over to the bet, and gently set her down. Eight quickly scooted over as Molly climbed in to join her. The 2 of them wrapped around each other, legs tangled together, with Molly resting their head in Eight's chest.

"...this is nice already, right?" Molly inquired.

"...yeah...but...I do not think this will do much about my energy..." Eight forced a smile. In her mind, she was stuck with sleep being only for night. You could only sleep when it was time to sleep. But Molly was willing to break this.

"You'll see. Naps are great. I kinda don't think I'd be hear without them." Molly admitted. "...here, let me help you with falling asleep."

Molly pulled herself up to Eight's face, and began to gently place kisses all over it, and her neck. Eight couldn't help but giggle, and try to return them back. As she did however, she felt her tiredness begin to be replaced by sleepiness. Molly's soft lips gingerly planting warm smooches all over her face was oddly soothing. She felt less worried about her work, a lot more relaxed...she only really cared about the moment she was in...about Molly...

Molly's kisses gradually slowed down, getting more and more gentle as they focused more on Eight's neck. They rubbed their hands along her back and hips, snuggling deeper into her. They eventually stopped, nestling into their lover. Eight's eyes were fluttering, the last remnants of her will to work being melted away by the cuddles. She sighed, and hugged Molly tighter, nuzzling their mantle as she let the feeling of warmth and love wash over her...

Her mind was filled with thoughts of how caring Molly was, how sweet they were, and how cuddly they were being...no thoughts of the deadline, work, or how exhausted she felt...just thoughts of love and comfort...as the 2 of them gently drifted into their nap...

[glacialswordsman-a]

" i know exactly what i'm doing, actually " they snort , pressing a gentle kiss against his jaw, beginning to trail the kisses back and down towards his neck. " i'm worshipping my very smart, very beautiful partner who deserves to know how much i love him. " they rest their head against his shoulder for a moment, wrapping their arms around him to rest their hands against his stomach . " you're always the one taking care of me , so let me return the favour . " they press a kiss against his shoulder , over a familiar bite mark that had been left there ages ago at this point . one that they were both a little guilty yet proud of . then they turn to begin trailing kisses towards his neck , leaving little bites here and there .

" you're always taking care of everyone else , honestly . it's about time you take a break and allow someone to take care of you . though maybe you just need to be tired out so that silly brain of yours can relax for once , hm ? "

( :3c. sumeru time obvi but teehee! )

Snorting lightheartedly, Kaeya gave a fond smile as he felt the kiss to his jaw before Ajax’s lips began to move down his neck. “Uh-huh, I’m sure you do,” he quipped, a small laugh leaving him. It was clear that the Snezhnayan was up to something, and Kaeya was ever wary, even with his beloved—actually, especially with his beloved. Their antics always varied wildly, so he wasn’t quite sure what they were up to.

Though, as they explained what they were doing, the Mondstadtian tensed up a bit as his witty remarks died in his throat. He stood in place as the other rests against him and presses their hands to his stomach, sending a jolt of butterflies straight through it as he shuddered lightly. “—Ajax,” he finally exhaled wispily, but even then, nothing else came out afterwards.

His breath hitched as he felt their lips press against that long-healed bite mark before they trailed back to his neck, leaving little nips in their path. Kaeya felt his face and the tips of his ears absolutely burning up, his brows scrunching together upwardly as they continued to speak. As they continued to praise him, assure him—love him.

A lump had formed in his throat, but he quickly swallowed it down as his own hands shifted to place themselves atop the ones that remained against his stomach, a soft huff akin to laughter leaving him when his brain was called silly.

“Of course I’d take care of you, why wouldn’t I? As for everyone else, I’m merely doing my job, that’s—that’s all. There’s nothing else to it, liebling. This…” he trails off, shivering faintly again as he wet his lips, suddenly feeling as though his mouth had gone all too dry.

“This isn’t…necessary. There’s nothing for you to worship.”

He’d only be worshipping an effigy.

[beansprean]

Queening the Pawn Act 3 Part 3

Guillermo you're meeeaaannn 🥰

Acts 1-2

Act 3: Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12 - Part 13 - Part 14

(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: 1a. Low exterior shot of a tall office building at night, labeled in the bottom third as 'Vampiric Council Headquarters'. A speech bubble bursts out from below, reading "Heeeere they are!" 1b. Interior of the building, still styled as Nadja's nightclub. Guillermo, wearing red chinos, suspenders, and a white shirt with sleeves rolled up, is sitting at the bar with a glass of water in his hand, the small tank containing the mummified penis of Abraham van Helsing sitting nearby. Guillermo looks up as the Guide, wearing a long black skirt, boots, gloves, and a black and white striped blazer, appears and drops a tall stack of books, scrolls, paper, and one VHS at his elbow. She grins and announces, "The Vampiric Council's entire history on the Van Helsings!" 1b. Repeat. Guillermo turns toward her in his seat and reaches for the scroll on top of the stack, saying, "Huh. I don't know if I expected more or less." The Guide frowns, one hand on her hip and the other gesturing at the stack. She replies, "Hey, I went through a lot of trouble to pull all this out of storage! Vampires don't exactly love talking about this guy." A wraith hand reaches up from behind the bar to snatch Guillermo's water.

2a. Guillermo turns back toward the bar and begins to unroll the first scroll across the bartop, revealing what looks like a family tree. He says, "Yeah well. Thanks for your help." The Guide stands behind him with her arms crossed. 2b. Repeat. The Guide rolls her eyes up innocently and walks around Guillermo, sliding her hand across his back as she passes, saying, "Soooo..." Guillermo startles at the contact, his scroll springing back into a roll as he loses his grip on it. 2c. The Guide hops up to sit on the bar on Guillermo's other side and continues, "Why the sudden interest?" 2d. Close up of Guillermo in profile as he turns his attention back to the scroll, replying, "Oh, you know. Family." The Guide stares blankly from the background. 2e. Wide shot from behind Guillermo, showing the backdrop of the bar with the neon "nadja's" sign and shelves of blood. The Guide leans back and crosses her legs, asking, "Hmmm... looking for relations?" Guillermo replies, "No, just. Trying to figure out some...biological stuff."

3a. Close up on the Guide as she grins salaciously, raising an eyebrow and proudly pressing her fingers to her collarbone. She says, "Oh, I know all about Van Helsing biology, if you know what I mean." 3b. Zoom out to same angle as 2e. The Guide pauses and frowns, looking down as she presses her fist to her chin in thought. She continues, "Or at least I did, before hundreds of years of my life were ripped from my memory..." Guillermo swivels in his seat to face her with an irritated sigh, eyes closed. 3c. Close up of Guillermo's stern expression as he chops the air with one hand, saying, "Yeah, that's really, uh... tough, The Guide? But unless you remember anything useful, I'd rather do this on my own." 3d. Reverse shot of the Guide as she purses her mouth and looks away, a little hurt. She replies, "Oh. Okay, then."

4a. Close up of Guillermo from the front as he turns back toward the bar, rolling the scroll out in one hand and leaning his head on the fist of the other. In the background, the Guide turns back as she walks away, clutching the excess of her skirt in one hand. She offers a thin smile and says, "Just let me know if you need anything, okay?" Guillermo just grunts in response. 4b. Wide shot of the large double doors into the chamber as the Guide leaves through them, skirts clutched in her fists and frowning deeply. She thinks to herself, "Useful, huh? I can be useful..." /end ID