#Questions about them are also welcome though I do like this concept

[hrokkall]

Designed some V-Model Iterators to go with the Minos and Sisyphus slugcats I've been drawing

[thewhizzyhead]

being a busy ass student with student journalism gigs on one hand and comm academic shit on the other is very interesting because with the jam-packed life I live I only really get to breathe at like late lAAATE night when no one can bother me about my responsibilities other than myself. that being said that's also when creative brain goes into overdrive and now misfits finally has the final draft of its opening number woo

[misshugs]

The elevator game || Colby Brock x Reader

[req by anon] You knew you were sensitive to the other side, but you didn't expect a silly little game from the internet to give you this much of an impact.

warnings: cursing, paranormal activity, reader getting (slightly) attacked by ghosts, sensitive/medium!reader, degrading, angst? still not sure what the meaning of it is tbh

a/n: this is my first request ever, i hope i didn't let you down dear anon. Concept based on this video

word count: 2.5k (not proofread)

[u n e d i t e d]

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"What's up guys, it's Sam and Colby!" Colby screamed towards the camera, as always.

"Today we are here at the Driskill Hotel, also known as the most haunted hotel here in Texas." Sam continues.

"We're here to figure out why this place is so haunted and what message the ghosts here wanna tell the people. And for this video guys, we have a very special someone!" Colby says, moving to the side so that you're visible to the camera.

Waving at it and smiling, you were greeted by Colby's hands wrapped around your shoulders. "Thank you, thank you. Hello, dear people. It is I." They laugh.

"How are you feeling about this? Are you excited?" Sam asks, putting the camera on the both of you.

"I am! The place is HUGE and honestly, just looks so good!"

"Right?? When we got in it was just like a burst of shock at how gorgeous this place is." Sam said and Colby nodded.

"If it weren't haunted I'd probably come here more often, but I can already feel all of these... energies walking around, I wouldn't last too long."

"Oh, right. For anybody that doesn't know, Y/n is actually a bit of medium?" Colby asks while looking at you, making you nod. "Yeah, so she's sensitive to like the energy of shadow figures and things like that, so maybe we'll get to experience something interesting tonight!"

"I'd say hopefully not but that wouldn't make it fun I guess." You laugh and so do they while you explain it is a pain in the ass to feel those things constantly. "It is almost as if you're constantly paranoid about someone looking at you, y'know what I mean?"

"Oh yeah, for sure." Colby noded.

"Yeah so that, but those stares are more physical than anything, there are times where I can feel people walking behind me and when I look back, there's no one."

"I can just imagine how creepy that must feel." Sam said and you chuckled.

"Oh yeah. You have no idea." You smiled.

"Well then, shall we begin the investigation?" Colby asked you, smiling. You quickly smiled back.

"Of course." You kissed him softly before Sam could even turn off the camera.

"Oh, gross man. I'll have to edit that out." He said jokingly and you laughed, rolling your eyes.

"But seriously though, let's keep it moving." You said and they agreed.

Walking around, there were a few pieces of lore they had to explain to you beforehand. About the one and only Driskill who created the hotel, about the little girl that broke her neck, so on and so forth.

There were times when you had this eerie feeling of constantly being followed, so you kept your arms interlocked with Colby's.

"You're doing okay so far?" He asked, cautiously caressing your hand. You nodded.

"Yeah, just feel like we're being followed." You replied, looking back where there was no one there.

"Really??" Sam asked, looking back as well but seeing nothing. "Do you think we caught a ghost's interest?"

"I mean, probably. There is a difference in between someone that's coming just for the hotel part and us, that are investigating and directly needing their intervention. We're making them curious."

"Well, for whatever spirit that might be following us, you're welcome to answer our questions later on tonight." Colby said loud enough for anything around to listen to it.

Honestly, even those small gestures made you so madly in love with him. The way he touches you softly just for you to make sure you're not alone and he's here for you is such a warming feeling.

Wilst looking around the current room, Colby walked up to a random closed door and tried to walk through.

"She said no closed doors!" Sam exclaimed, probably talking about the tour guide's rules of the place.

"Unless it's... unlocked." Colby responded, making Sam roll his eyes.

"Oop, it's Jim Hogg's room." You said, looking up.

"Who's that?" Sam asked.

"I dunno, it says its name on the top." You point up and they just laughed at the comment. I mean, what were they expecting? You had no idea about whatever story roams around these halls asides from the two main ones they've explained.

"Also I don't think you should be trying even more, like if it's hard to go in it's probably because you're not supposed to."

"We have a bad reputation of breaking into places." Sam admitted and you smiled.

"Yeah, I know. I remember that." You chuckle and hold Colby's hand to pull away from the door.

As they kept on chatting and making interesting comments here and there, you found the elevator and pointed it out. "Oh, is this the one?" Colby asked Sam and he just gave him a stare.

"This is the one what?" You ask and they look at eachother.

Sam sighed. "We were going to keep it until the time came, but we may have a little challenge for tonight that has to do with the elevator."

"Ooooh sounds fun. I wanna do it." You smile.

"You sure?? You have to be by yourself." Colby asked, worried but amused.

"Do you think I can't do this, Mr. Brock? That's offensive." You spat, crossing your hands around your chest.

"No! I meant-" He tried to explain, but you quickly interrupted.

"Cancelled, I tell you. Cancelled!" You look away with your eyes closed, trying not to laugh at the stupid situation unfolding.

"Great." You heard him sigh in defeat as Sam started laughing at the both of you. Looking back with a smile on your face, you hugged him.

"Alright, let's get going already." You giggled, gaining a kiss on the top of your head from your boyfriend.

Walking inside the elevator, it almost felt as if it quickly went down in an unnatural way.

"Did you guys feel like... the elevator dropping three inches?"

"Yeah, kinda of." Sam said.

"Three inches is a lot." Colby replied.

"Three inches is huge." Sam continued.

"I can vouch." You said.

"Mass..." Colby began talking but couldn't hold in the laugh after you said that.

Going back to the main lobby, you all reached out to a girl that was apparently the tourguide. She quickly explained the story of the place, how it ended up being the renouned hotel it came to be.

When she explained that the smell of cigar was one of the main ways Driskill manifested, your eyes went wide. "You're kidding."

"No, did you smell it before?" She asked.

"I did! But it was like, close to the entrance so I thought that maybe someone was smoking. I did find it rare because it was just a glimpse of it for like a solid second and then gone." You explained, making the girl smile.

"Well, that was him."

"No way." Colby said, smiling at you.

"Yup." She nodded, continuing to explain as you all started walking back to the elevator. Going inside, the door closed only to be opened again. "Oh?"

"Did we just pressed five and went to one? It's haunted!" Sam exclaimed.

"That was weird." Colby said, looking at the door.

"It was, that was so weird." The guide said, trying to close the door once again, only for it to open again.

"Does it do that often?" You asked and she shook her head.

"No! It doesn't." She walked back out and talked to someone from out side. "Are you fucking with us?"

"That's so strange- oh, I hit it." You whispered. The guide came back in.

"But you see it, right? I'm pressing five and it like start to go up but then it stops." The door closes once again, only for them to open.

"Oh my god." Sam said, whispering.

"And we're doing a challenge here?" You asked confused, making them laugh.

"Not here exactly." Colby smiled.

"Lemme- I'll go out." You said, walking out of the elevator, watching as the doors began to close, only for them to open once again. "Oh no, that's- that's a malfunction alright."

"And you said it, these malfuction all the time." Colby said to the guide as they walked out of the elevator.

When Sam did it by himself, it started working all over again.

"What the fuck??" Colby yelled.

"Are we like fat? Is it fat shaming us?" You whined, making everyone laugh.

And so, even though your night barely started, you were already having some activity to say the least.

And it kept being that way all night. Constant responses from spirits, intelligent ones at that. The little girl, the woman from the vortex room... all the way down to the challenge you've been anticipating the whole night round.

The elevator challenge.

"I think it might be just me but every single time we pass through this side of the hotel I feel like actually throwing up."

"Wait, really?" Colby asked, worried.

"Like an eerie feeling more than anything, almost like I'm kinda feeling a bit dizzy whenever we pass through here."

"Are you sure you want to do this? You can still back out, or I could go in with you." Colby tried to make you change your mind, but you were settled in it.

"No, I have to do it alone. What if it doesn't work because we're together? You're not gonna let me do this right?"

"I do! I'm just worried." Colby admitted, making you smile.

"You cutie. I love you so much." You said, smiling at him and cupping his face before giving him a quick peck on the lips.

"Y'all are gonna make me puke, another part I'm gonna have to cut out." Sam joked, making you giggle.

"Alright, alright. So, how does this work?" You ask, hugging yourself as you wait for instructions.

It was a simple game. Supposedly, you had to hit the buttons of the elevator in a specific order. In the last one, you had to invite in a lady. If the ritual worked, you were supposed to start going up into another world. If it didn't, well, nothing happened and it failed.

"So... I'm about to get isekai'd? We're going to an anime, brothers." You laughed at your own joke while they handed you your camera.

"I send you the order, just in case." Sam continued, and you nodded.

"Thank you, 'cause I already forgot." You turned on your phone as well as the camera and walked in.

"Any last words?" Colby asked cheekishly, making you smile.

"See you in the other side." You answered, before the door closed. You sighed, putting the camera up to your face. "Alright, so... I'm supposed to hit this one first." Switching the camera back to the buttons, you hit the number four.

It began moving. "Oh, good. It would've been a mess if it already fucked up. Alright..." You sighed. "I didn't told them this, but I do find the thought of getting stuck in an elevator horrifying. I just agreed because maybe it might help me out, but it doesn't work the fact that I can feel so many spirits around this area specifically every time we walk past it." You explain before getting on the next floor, touching the next button.

Back down on the lobby, Sam and Colby were talking.

"I didn't want her to do it, honestly. I was gonna do it myself." Sam said.

"Right? She's our guest too, what if something happens to her? That would be the death of me."

"Don't jinx it, brother. She'll be alright."

Boy they were wrong.

Halfway through, your vision started to get blurry, your legs were shaky and you couldn't brush off the feeling of pressure on your chest. It was starting to make you nervous, even more so the fact you were alone.

You started thinking to yourself. What if something really did happen? What if you summon something your body couldn't handle? What if it really did send you to another world?

It happened so quickly, that you have already reached the last floor before you knew it. Gulping down your dry throat, you began to speak. "Alright, if there's something... out... oh fuck." Your vision got blurry and you could feel an inmense ammout of power flushing through the elevator doors even before it opened up.

You couldn't hold it together, it was too much for you to handle as you were suspecting before. Although you tried to stay up, your legs couldn't hold your weight up anymore and you passed out, falling down to the floor, hitting your head strongly onto the hard floor of the elevator.

Luckily, the ritual didn't work. It began going down and the guys, mainly Colby, were anxiously waiting for the doors to open. When they did, their faces fell.

Colby screamed out your name, quickly rushing in and holding your head. "Love?? Sweetheart, what happened? Wake up, please. Oh God." He began shaking, carrying you outside of the elevator so that it was slightly more comfortable.

"What happened? Oh my fucking God." Sam whispered, grabbing your camera from the elevator's floor and walking out.

"She's not responding, Sam." Colby nervously said, making sure you were at least still alive.

You were.

"Should I call an ambulance or something?" Sam asked. "Oh, no. I have the keys with me."

"Let's take her to the hospital, quickly." He lifted you up from the floor and hurriedly got out of the building and to the hospital.

You were alright, luckily. It seemes you have just fainted, but you falling down to the floor and hitting your head so hard made it a bit more complicated than what it had to be.

Colby felt bad, horrible even to think that this could've happened to you.

He should've been more careful, he should've known you were too sensitive to all of these energies so that you would go alone and out to make something so nerve racking. He should've been more insisting, rather than going with the flow merely because of a video.

He let his love have that type of experience because of a mere video.

It devastared him. Made him feel absolutely awful about it. While waiting for you to wake up, he kept on downgrading himself thinking about how he's the worst possible boyfriend.

It all stops when you finally wake up. Looking around the white room, confused.

"What happened?"

"It looks like you fainted... I'm so sorry for letting you do that all by yourself, I should've stopped you, I should've at least gone with you, I'm so sorry that you had to go through that because-"

"Love. Love!" You held his cheeks softly, making him quietly stop ranting, you smiled. "You know I wanted to do it, I was the stupid one for forgetting that big energy rafts can affect me a lot, I'm so sorry baby." You kissed his nose, reassuring him everything was alright.

And honestly, he needed to hear it. From you, specifically. Sam was trying to make him calm down but it didn't really work. It had to be you, your voice, your smile.

The one thing that made him whole all over again.

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I MAY HAVE DONE TOO MUCH FILLER FOR NO GODDAMN REASON- also hoping that dear anon liked it-

thank you for reading, loves~! likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated <3

~nikkõ

[bakubonez]

mayhaps would you write as little or as much as you’d want of dan heng x reader and how they slowly work their way into his everyday life??? Perchance the fic generally begins with reader’s arrival on the express and extends into how either of them confessed and how they’re an inseparable part of dan heng’s life now （╹◡╹）I am so sorry for the long ass request lol

Dan Heng x GN! Reader || fluff

Summary: After inserting yourself into Dan Heng’s daily life, eventually he comes to enjoy your company—perhaps a bit too much.

A/N: HOORAY I was so excited to read this request, it was a lot of fun to do 🦭 I hope you like it, I wrote it while a little bit eepy so hopefully it isn’t too bad 🙏 also the trailblazer is considered as a separate entity from the reader so,, there is a wild Stelle/Caelus running around on the express

Your arrival on the express had sort of been anticipated, considering how much time you’d been spending with the Nameless since you met them—but that didn’t mean that Dan Heng was entirely happy with the concept. It wasn’t personal, he didn’t mind you as a person, he just wasn’t the most eager to discover someone new had joined the crew.

Unfortunately(or perhaps fortunately) for Dan Heng, you attached yourself to him. He has no clue why you took to him, but you did, and he didn’t have the heart to tell you to screw off. Besides, you weren’t too much of a nuisance. Your annoyingness levels were similar to that of March 7th and the trailblazer, so it wasn’t anything he was unfamiliar with.

Wherever he goes, you seem to follow. The majority of your free time was spent acting as his shadow, poking around in the databank, lounging in the parlor car with him, and so on.

Your company isn’t bad and he eventually grows to tolerate you easily. He’d answer your questions with patience and allow you to just, well, be around him, without complaint.

Mostly everyone else on the express notices.

At first its just the wise Himeko and Mr. Yang who notice Dan Heng warming up to you, but eventually while March 7th and the trailblazer are up to their usual nonsense, they have their eureka moment, and suddenly everyone—except for you and Dan Heng—is on the same page.

After a while, some conflicting feelings start to brew within Dan Heng. He wasn’t entirely sure what to do with them, but he knew that they were your fault. He hardly even realises it when he starts welcoming your presence in his life, and missing you dearly when you aren’t around.

You’d formed a habit of bringing him food to share, when he’d lock himself up in his room and work tirelessly on the databank. When you missed a meal with him, it left a feeling of disappointment in his chest. He’d started to look forward to your mealtimes with him.

Times when you leave, maybe to go out with March 7th and the trailblazer, or are on a separate part of the train doing chores, he tends to notice your absence—whether it be him having to eat breakfast alone or work in the databank without you, he always notices.

Dan Heng isn’t sure how to broach the topic. He considers asking Mr. Yang or perhaps Himeko for advice, but just thinking about it makes his skin burn a bit. And he’d rather clean the floors of the express with a toothbrush than have to tell March or the trailblazer about it. So, he’s left to deal with it alone until he gathers up the courage to tell you.

Every single time you’re around, he’s tempted to just come out with it. When you’re sitting next to him in his room, when you’re playing chess together, anything.

It’s excruciatingly painful for the rest of the Nameless to watch. They can all see how you fawn over Dan Heng, and how he dotes on your similarly, but they can’t do anything to speed up your hopeless pining and finally get you two to start a proper, committed relationship.

Much to their delight, though, Dan Heng does finally cough up his true feelings.

It wasn’t a particularly romantic setting. You two were just spending time together as you usually did, taking part in some mundane activity, but a slip of Dan Heng’s tongue changed it entirely.

He seemed almost as shocked as you were when he confessed to you, staring at you like a deer in headlights, like something had possessed him and made him tell you how he felt. He braced himself for some sort of rejection, but it… it never came.

In fact, rejection was the last thing on your mind—only giddy excitement.

After some mildly awkward back and forth, the pair of you discovered that hey, you two had been pining over each other for ages, and now the truth had finally come out. It was a relief.

Not much changed after you finally settled on a label for your relationship. The two of you were as close as ever. Of course, March was delighted—everyone was, really.

You became an inseparable couple, and neither of you could be happier.

[annoyinglandmagazine]

You know that whole scene with Klaus reuniting with Punch and Judy/ Adam and Lilith? That already gives me so many emotions but I ended up accidentally making it worse with headcanons about their previous relationship that I hope at some point will make it into a fic:

Bill and Barry never really grasped the way constructs were treated outside of Mechanicsburg. They don’t really get the concept that something like that could matter so much to people, that they would actively view people as less than human for a few stitches or an extra limb. That the insanity of Mechanicsburg could actually be an improvement on the rest of the world that supposedly cared about morals in this one thing that they’d never even questioned before.

They try, they really do, they get righteously furious about it every other week, but they never really get it. They’re more confused than anything when Klaus and Judy tell them they should be the ones to ask for boarding while travelling anonymously because they’re less likely to be turned away.

They don’t notice that Punch and Judy take certain adventures more personally than the rest of them do, the way they went all still when hearing a monologue about constructs taken as ‘spare parts’ by Sparks that insist it doesn’t count because they’re not people anyway. Even worse the supposed ‘heroes’ they work with to take down rogue Sparks and then turn around and insist that the job isn’t finished until they purge the area of the Spark’s creations as well.

They’re complaining about their professors and Klaus explains why he dislikes one of them by casually bringing up that he had a pet theory of a ‘sliding scale of humanity’ and he once derailed a lecture by trying to place Klaus on it. They are horrified and murderous and Klaus becomes the first person to marvel at how sheltered someone was growing up in Mechanicsburg.

So there is always a certain connection between Punch, Judy and Klaus over this in particular because they know that Bill and Barry can’t possibly understand. Not like they do. And it’s important, to Punch and Judy entering an outside world for the first time and having it reject them even as it grows used to and even welcomes the Heterodynes but not them, never fully. Heterodynes can redeem themselves with enough determination but how can you redeem yourself when your only crime to begin with was existing?

It’s important to Klaus who knew relatives and friends who looked like they had to force themselves to say his name without flinching because they didn’t really believe it was him they were talking to. University was a fresh start but it took years for him to break the nervous habit of adjusting his cuffs and collar to cover his skin because it was just exhausting to watch the way people changed once they noticed.

Sometimes they talked about it but most of the time they’re just there for each other and that’s enough. Also they’re all way more willing to get into a fight on someone else’s behalf than their own so it gives them a nice opening to beat the shit out of bigots.

On an unrelated and slightly less angsty note I also think that Punch and Judy were sort of the mom friends of the Heterodyne adventures. They got into the habit of spending a considerable amount of their lives trying to make these insane twenty somethings get some rest every now again and the rest of it complaining (Punch naturally had a sign language that the Boys may have invented specifically for him but communicated perfectly adequately through Looks as well) the constant, stupid risks they took to their own lives.

When it became clear that they couldn’t have children Bill and Barry couldn’t feel more terrible about it, they spent ages trying to come up with a solution but couldn’t imagine one where there was an ironclad guarantee of no amnesia. Klaus suggested adoption since they were so good with the orphans they came across but, though it wasn’t ruled out, Judy half jokingly made comments about how she was busy enough with ‘her boys’ anyway so she didn’t need children for now.

Klaus finds it easiest to talk to Punch sometimes because he really listens and waits until he’s finished speaking to offer input when it’s wanted (it usually isn’t). He’s also exceptionally good at reading non verbal cues which is helpful because Klaus always had some kind of allergy to talking about anything personal.

Judy knows about Lucrezia and Klaus. She’s fairly certain Bill is the only one of them who doesn’t. She personally thinks both of them would be a lot better off with someone else, anyone else really. She distrusts something in Lucrezia’s eyes when she’s around them, calculating and almost predatory, but then both of them had unusual ideas of what constituted romance. She doesn’t like it but she doesn’t say anything. Years later she’ll wish she had.

When Punch and Judy hear that Klaus is back from the dead and annihilating all the warring nobility’s armies that cross his path they think ‘Well something else is clearly going on there but that does sound a little like what Klaus would do if he went off the deep end to be perfectly honest.’

They find out he’s conquering an empire and that sounds a lot less like Klaus. Then Barry returns in a complete panic, holding his niece like a lifeline and talking about how Klaus is working for the Other.

It’s a struggle to even contemplate it, the same Other that killed Bill’s infant son and most likely Bill as well, the Other that destroyed the Wulfenbach barony and massacred its people, including Klaus’ own parents, the Other that ravaged Europa sending it into a state of utter chaos. They know Klaus. They’ve known him since he was reckless eighteen year old who just wanted to make the world a better place. They know him.

But…… A few months ago they would have said the thought of subjugating the continent would never cross Klaus’ mind, that he’d never do something like that. He wasn’t that kind of Spark. On their bad days the boys used to talk about what would happen if either of them ever crossed ‘the line’ and though they’d all reassured them that they never would Klaus had promised in complete sincerity that he wouldn’t let them.

No one had ever thought that Klaus might need to have a line. He never even properly lost control of a fugue, he didn’t forget morals in the heat of the moment, every decision he made he’d stand by years later as the right one. He took things further than the boys sometimes but that was because he’d concluded it was for the best and he didn’t need a strict code the way they, still wrestling and redirecting those Heterodyne urges inside them, did.

They also knew Barry and he wouldn’t ever be able to believe something like that if there’d been any other explanation. Barry had known Klaus too.

Basically I’m never going to get over the tragedy that is this group of people because they were friends! They were probably the first real friends any of them had had! They were so young and optimistic and they decided they were going to start fixing things because no one else would. They thought the world could get better and people deserved second chances and for a while it actually worked and it meant something and then it blew up in their faces.

Everything falls apart worse than it was when they started, they lose everyone close to them and they wonder if the world was ever really going to change at all. When the era of the Heterodyne Boys comes to an end they don’t face it together the way they always thought they would if they failed. It ends with all of them are separated and so disillusioned that they’ll believe that even their closest friends would betray them and humanity in the worst way possible.

[actual-changeling]

Muriel isn't a child, they're not stupid or immature, and they CAN take care of themselves—with that, welcome to Alex's unhinged meta corner, hinged edition.

We need to talk about Muriel, so let's dive right in.

Despite the way many people depict them, they are the exact same age as every other angel, fallen or otherwise, and treating them as lesser because their mannerisms and expressions don't match up with what you think an 'adult' should look like doesn't mean they aren't one.

Not to speak of the ableism that's inherent to that kind of thinking, and actually, you know what? Before I keep talking, I want to ask you a question.

It is very common to talk about Muriel as a 'child of divorce', being 'adopted' by Crowley, someone 'precious' that needs protecting, and a lot of titles and concepts along those lines.

The question is: If, say, Uriel were in their place—sent down to earth after not being there for more than five minutes ever—would you still call him everything you call Muriel now? Would you treat him the same way you're treating them?

Would you see him the same way, and if not, why?

The question is, if any other angel were in Muriel's position, would you also infantilize them the way you currently do with Muriel?

Feel free to actually answer that question on my post or in your own, because I am genuinely curious about the reasoning, especially behind 'no' as an answer.

Heaven completely neglected them just like they did with everyone else, they were completely alone in a big, empty white room with nothing but a glass desk and presumably a chair for six thousand years—and probably even longer than that. Having someone ask them a job-related question every couple centuries doesn't even BEGIN to scratch the surface of their social needs.

When they came down to earth, it was the equivalent of one's first day at a new job, at university, at school, anywhere you had not been before but now plan on being for a while.

You come across others that have been there for twenty years and look like omniscient gods from your point of view; they run the game while you don't even know which game you're supposed to be playing. This is one of the reasons why they read as autistic to many, including myself, because that's exactly what every social situation feels like to me. That's for another post, though.

Of course they're socially awkward and easily overwhelmed! They were dropped off in a capital city after—and let me emphasise this once more—being completely alone for millennia.

The highest of the angels ordered them to do a specific job, like, fuck, I'd be having a nervous breakdown in the lift and curl up in a corner for a few hours because that thought is terrifying. Especially because failure is not something heaven accepts. Especially because they know what happens to those who disobey or disappoint in whatever shape or form.

When we see them, it is in that exact situation—talking to their bosses that they've likely never talked to before, arriving in a new world, being around new people, in a new environment, new everything. It always reminds me of this quote from Modern Family.

Muriel was assigned a rank and job just like everyone else, and they deserve the same respect and acknowledgement for it as the Guardian of the Eastern Gate or the Archangels themselves. Muriel is probably really fucking good at what they do, they've had millennia of practice, but we simply never see them in their everyday situations. Give them some time and support, and they'll be up to speed in no time.

They are not a child—don't treat them like one.

[dalishious]

Veilguard Companion First Impressions

So, I’ve finally recruited all the companions for the Veilguard! And as such, I thought I’d share my initial thoughts on them each.

Please keep in mind that as the title says, these are just my first impressions. I am nowhere near finishing the game yet. My thoughts very well may change after getting to know the characters more as the story progresses. Also, please do not take any opinions you do not share as a personal attack against you.

Bellara

Bellara might be my #1 favourite.

I’ve seen some people just say Bellara is “a Merrill rip-off” but I don’t think that’s fair at all. If all it took was a few similarities to say a character is a rip-off of another character, than I can think of so many boring white cishet male characters who would be guilty of that. But heaven forbid we get more than one elven woman who is passionate about her people’s culture and history!

Frankly, I think Bellara is a breath of fresh air in terms of Dalish characters specifically. Finally, a Dalish elf who isn’t punished for being proudly Dalish by the narrative.

I also really appreciate that so much of her can be easily understood by her backstory, too. Like, her feelings of never being good enough is reflective of the very realistic grief she is experiencing.

Lucanis

If Bellara isn’t my #1 favourite, then Lucanis is. They really both dominate that spot neck in neck. I can’t decide if I want to put him in a jar and shake it to see what happens, or wrap him up tight in a quilt and give him some good coffee.

I’m just a sucker for Lucanis’s character archetype, is the thing. I love taking him out simply because he’s so much fun to have around. And in terms of companion arcs, his is the one I am most intrigued to see where it goes.

Taash

(While I haven’t personally gotten to Taash’s non-binary plot yet, I am aware Taash switches to they/them pronouns, so that’s what I’ll be using.)

The moment I met Taash felt my heart skip a beat. The only thing hotter than their appearance is their voice. I know BioWare probably left Taash out of a lot of the advertising because they wanted to keep Taash’s gender stuff a surprise, but oh my god, because of this I was taken by quite the surprise. And so far Taash seems to be the type to keep a hard outer shell to protect a much softer side, and that is yet another character archetype I really love.

Davrin

My initial gripe about Davrin’s writing being so exclusively about Assan rather than Davrin himself is slowly peeling away, I hope. While I still think its bullshit that you can welcome Assan into the Veilgaurd but not Davrin, at least I’ve finally gotten a few bits of dialogue to get to know more about him finally. I just want to keep this momentum! Because Davrin as a concept has so much potential, in my opinion, and what little bits I have gotten from him have captivated me. But I can’t tell yet if it’s intentionally part of his character that maybe he’s just a closed off person who takes a while to trust others, (a little like Taash?) Or if the writer just cared more about griffons than the actual guy. I’m really, really holding out hope for the former.

Emmrich

Emmrich is so much more charming than I expected, and I found him instantly endearing the moment we met him. I also really like that we’re finally hearing some different stances and insight on death and necromancy than we ever had before from a companion! It makes him feel so fresh and completely new!

Harding

I’ll be real with you: I was not anticipating caring about Harding so much. She was who I was originally least interested in, when the companion line-up was announced. But the direction they’re taking her in has me questioning so much about bigger lore questions.

Unfortunately, I still don’t see much in her except being a vessel for those bigger lore questions, though. Like, Harding as a person has me mildly curious at best.

Neve

I’m really sorry Neve fans, but I just find her really boring so far, in comparison to everyone else. She doesn’t have a lot going on, and what she does have going on, doesn’t really captivate me much. Maybe I was just hoping she’d have stronger stances on things than she does? I don’t know.

It could be that I just really fucked up with Neve, and it won’t be until another playthrough that I’ll get to experience more that will change my mind. Because I will admit I am very good at picking choices she disapproves of, with my first Rook.

[poepoesstuff]

Satosugu x Reader Series - Part 1: Meeting Gojo & Geto

Notes: I’ve never written fanfiction before, so please don’t take it too seriously! I was just bored and thought about this idea because I love the concept of being in a poly relationship with Gojo and Geto—it seems like so much fun! I’m new to writing, so feedback, questions, or suggestions are totally welcome! I’m just having fun with it.

Tags:

#Satosugu #Gojo Satoru #Geto Suguru #Reader Insert #Jujutsu Kaisen #Satoru Gojo x Reader #Suguru Geto x Reader #Polyamory #Fanfiction #Jujutsu Kaisen Fanfic #Satoru Gojo x Suguru Geto #JJK Fanfiction #Gojo x Geto #Jujutsu High #Satosugu x Reader

-

You guys knew each other from high school. You came to Jujutsu High later but joined the same class as Gojo and Geto, though you were on a different team. The first person you noticed was Gojo Satoru from the Gojo Clan—a lineage you’d only heard of. His reputation and charm immediately intrigued you. However, it was Geto Suguru who ultimately stole your heart with his calm confidence.

You were introduced to the class about a year and a half before Geto’s path took a darker turn.

As Yaga steps into the class, he calls attention to you. You follow him in, and several surprised faces turn to look at you.

“This is Y/N. She’s a kunoichi from a remote village in Japan and will be attending as your classmate from now on. Y/N, introduce yourself.”

You take a breath, feeling the eyes on you, but stand confidently. “I am L/N Y/N, from the C/N Clan. As of today, I’m beginning my journey as a sorcerer at Jujutsu High. My family is known for preserving sorcery knowledge and secrets. As the new heir, I’ve come to study and hone my skills.”

You notice intrigued expressions, especially from a silver-haired boy with piercing blue eyes in the back. Shoko’s gaze also seems particularly curious. Once Yaga leaves, you take your seat and start your Jujutsu High journey. Quickly, you become friends with Shoko, who introduces you to both Gojo and Geto.

First Impressions

Gojo is thrilled to have you in class and wastes no time bringing you up with Geto.

“So,” Gojo nudges Geto with a grin, “what do you think of the new girl?”

Geto raises an eyebrow, already catching onto Gojo’s interest. “You mean Y/N? She has an interesting technique, definitely useful in a fight.”

Gojo laughs, shaking his head. “Come on, that’s not what I meant, and you know it.” He gives Geto a playful shove.

Geto smirks knowingly. “Well, if you’re asking… yes, she’s beautiful. Kinda reminds me of Erika Sawajiri.”

Gojo huffs, crossing his arms. “Right? I knew I had an eye for these things!”

Meanwhile, you feel lucky to be spending time with both of them. Missions become highlights of your training whenever you’re paired with Gojo, Geto, or both.

Gojo Satoru’s Approach to Win You Over

After Gojo admits he’s interested, he goes all out. Here’s how he tries to impress you:

1. Playful Teasing: Gojo loves to make you laugh. Expect playful remarks and witty comebacks whenever you’re around. His goal? To get you to blush.

2. Showing Off His Power: Gojo’s proud of his abilities, and he doesn’t hold back from showing off. From flashy demonstrations of his Limitless technique to skillful moves on missions, he always seems to be “casually” proving how powerful he is.

3. Grand Gestures: Gojo’s not one for small acts. If he learns about your favorite snack, he’ll buy a whole stash of it. If you’re stressed, he’ll invite you on a night adventure to see the city lights.

Continuing from where we left off with Gojo’s approach:

4. Constant Presence: Gojo wants to be around you as much as possible. He’ll always find a reason to sit next to you in class, join you on missions, or just “accidentally” bump into you between training sessions. He’s persistent and makes sure you notice him.

5. Playful Competition with Geto: Knowing Geto likes you too, Gojo can’t resist turning it into a friendly rivalry. He’ll challenge Geto to sparring matches, jokes, or even silly games to try and prove he’s the better choice for you, often with a smirk and a playful wink in your direction.

Geto Suguru’s Approach to Win You Over

Geto’s approach is more subtle, thoughtful, and grounded. Here’s how he tries to capture your heart:

1. Deep Conversations: Geto values getting to know you on a personal level. He’ll ask about your background, your clan, and your opinions on sorcery. These conversations make you feel like he genuinely cares about who you are beyond your technique.

2. Small, Thoughtful Gestures: Geto isn’t flashy but remembers the small details, like your favorite tea or if you’re having a hard day. He’ll quietly leave a comforting note or share a peaceful place he’s found on campus with you. His kindness is understated but leaves an impact.

3. Protective on Missions: Though both he and Gojo are strong, Geto takes a protective role. He’ll keep a watchful eye over you, subtly stepping in to ensure your safety without making it obvious. It’s his way of showing you’re important to him.

4. Respectful of Your Space: Unlike Gojo, Geto gives you space to make your own choices. He never pressures you to spend time with him, trusting that if you like him, you’ll come to him. This gives him a calm confidence, which contrasts with Gojo’s more in-your-face approach.

5. Gentle Rivalry with Gojo: Geto handles the “competition” in a reserved way, knowing Gojo’s personality. While Gojo’s approach is loud, Geto’s is quieter—he focuses on creating genuine moments with you that show his sincerity, confident that his authenticity will speak for itself.

Gojo and Geto were unbelievably close, and you helped them realize their feelings for each other and get together. They were six months into their relationship before they added you.

[slowd1ving]

IV. REVISED: THE CONCEPT OF FRIENDSHIP .・゜DAN HENG NSFW

One of the theories pushed forward in this universe—a common conjecture between scientists throughout the stars—is that there are disturbances in a system that is being observed, versus one that is not. This is astutely named the observer effect. And this situation is the first proper example he’s seen of that. Dan Heng feels that as soon as he takes his eyes off you, you’ll phase back to a space between these dimensions, like some specter there are only myths about. when data nerd Dan Heng finds the forbidden dictionary and masters the hidden art: synonyms male! engineer reader warnings: eventual nsfw, kind of but not really spoilers to dan heng's backstory, amab reader

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

DRINKER OF THE MOON, DEVOURER OF DREAMS MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

PREVIOUS PART

There’s a certain art that comes with avoiding people, and Dan Heng has practically mastered it by now. From evading the monsters that habitually trespass on his path, to eluding the red-eyed man from Dan Feng’s convoluted past—no one can deny his experience in these twisted matters. 

Unlike his predecessor, he has no qualms in ridding himself of problematic situations by simply taking his leave. And though he may be labelled a coward, he can’t find it within himself to care. Honour and dignity is important—he’ll acknowledge that gladly—but making the pragmatic decision is something he’ll continue to prioritise. 

When you’re a fugitive, it’s all you have left. 

So, why hasn’t he left the Express yet?

A week prior, the brief vacation finally reached its conclusion and he stepped back onto the train. It was easy at first—you were busy reading over the contract negotiated by Mr. Yang with Argo-II for their bronze. There was no time for you and him to be alone. Not even in that fateful kitchen. 

His nightmares had ceased temporarily due to the lingering effects of the Argonian booze, so there was an easy excuse to save him from the regular nightly rendezvous. But at what cost?

All the rational cells in his brain are urging him to leave the Express far behind. It’s a honey-trap, they scream—he’s becoming too dependent on its security. There is also the pressing issue of your presence, but he’s intentionally avoiding thinking about it. 

He should leave. 

Dan Heng has overstayed his welcome. 

“—oh, Dan Heng, perfect. Do you remember where the information for the Migrides Embassy legislature was, from when I asked for it a few weeks back?” Himeko’s request jolts him from his reverie, and before he’s even aware of it, his deft hands pick out the correct file from the archive shelves. “We’ll use their own courts against them to uphold our honour.”

He frowns. I’ve gotten too acclimated to living here. 

“Are you feeling alright?”

The man in question tears his eyes away from the small bag that sits in the corner. It’s a sharp reminder of his obligations—moving on before he lands himself in an even bigger mess. 

“Perfectly fine, Himeko,” he bites his tongue, afraid that his sour mood will taint his polite words with curtness. 

She tilts her head, and her blood-like hair spills from her shoulders in a clean decapitation. The action is an ominous prelude to her next words. 

“You didn’t have an argument with him, or anything?” 

Sometimes, she’s also annoyingly perceptive. 

“No,” he replies carefully. “We’ve just been busy with our respective lines of work.”

“...If you say so.” It’s clear she doesn’t believe him, and the long look she gives him only reinforces that notion. He can’t bring himself to meet her eyes; they seem like they’ll unearth his unease about being near you, forcibly prying any reason from him. Behind his back, his nails dig into his palms. “The tension doesn’t suit you. Talk to him sooner rather than later.”

She exits the archives then, and he’s left wondering about the meaning embedded deep within her words. 

What tension? That dream was an error; like the fields of ‘Asphodel’, he would’ve never dreamt about you had he been in his right mind. 

Sure, he might be avoiding you, but he’s not tense. He’s my friend. The awkward feeling will dissipate in due time, so Dan Heng’s making the tactful decision to elude you and get over himself. And Himeko’s right, he reluctantly accepts. If he wants to inoculate himself against making things even weirder than they normally are, it’s necessary to ease back into the regular back-and-forth of friendship with you. 

Friendship—the word’s bittersweet on his tongue, for some strange reason. 

It’s both fortunate and unfortunate that he’s unable to see you for the next few days. 

After all, you personally descend to the Migrides cluster alongside Himeko—an unlikely pair, but one that absolutely makes sense—in order to finally beat the Embassy at their own game. It’s strange, though. Where he should find relief in his chest, there’s only a heavier, tighter burden to carry. 

It hurts. There’s no rhyme nor reason to his erratic pulse, not any more. For those few days, there’s not a trace of your presence and he’s growing listless. 

Contradictions. He’s full of them, forcibly driving a wedge between the two of you, yet he can’t deal with the overwhelming lack of you.

“You’re spacing out,” Mr. Yang cuts into his thoughts. There’s only a wooden chequerboard between them, but it feels more like a chasm that simply cannot be bridged. “And losing.”

Check. His rook is promptly sacrificed in the bloody battle, but it’s not like he’ll win. With a drawn out sigh, he tips his king flat onto the board. 

“There’s something on your mind, I’d wager.” Mr. Yang stares long and hard at the easy victory he’d gained—one of Dan Heng’s most embarrassing moments in chess, but it’s not like he’s particularly engrossed in the game. 

“What gave that away?” 

It’s a curt response; he’s tired of the constant reminders of you. Still, he holds onto the hope that maybe—just maybe—the bespectacled man isn’t referring to you like Himeko had. 

Mr. Yang simply looks at him with that flat gaze, and he loses that kindled ember of hope he nurtured. 

“Forget it,” he shakes his head, and for a brief moment Dan Heng feels relief that the topic has been dropped. 

“I’m sure you’ve got it under control. I’m sure you’re not running away from communication.”

Sometimes, he’s reminded that Mr. Yang is more sardonic than he lets on. 

And there’s something so hilarious in the way he musters up his courage to approach you first, only for you to slide open the door to the archives first. 

Thump. For a heartbeat or two, he’s spellbound by your return—yet he can’t bring himself to say anything. He ducks his head back into his book when you look over: piercing eyes glaring right into his soul. There’s a faint rustling of plastic against plastic as you slide out several files, though not a singular word from your lips. 

Aeons. He can feel his face heat up as the rough mixture of soap and metal hits him. You’re here, but he can barely think, let alone formulate any sort of sentence. 

When he looks up after a few minutes, you’re still there—and noticing his eyes on you, you give him a brief nod whilst you read over your selection. 

It’s too much. It really is. 

Dan Heng leaves the small room with paper trailing behind him and a pulse too erratic to be considered healthy—the rushed action elicits a small noise of surprise as he brushes past you. He avoids your eyes, but can’t evade the mandarins still clinging to your clothes and now his. 

The bathroom door is locked, yet your presence is etched onto his skin. 

This is friendship?—he scoffs. Friendship shouldn’t taste so bitter, not when his stomach is writhing uncontrollably. Not when he feels his tongue go leaden and skull grow heavy. There’s something wrong with him. It’s clawing from his insides—raw scars are left on tender flesh. 

Even when he knows the coast is long clear, it takes more than a half-hour for him to slink back to the archives. Why? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to know, not when the lingering remains of you still hover around the enclosed space. 

If he had one word to describe this feeling welling up inside, it would be torturous. 

Shameful. 

He can’t sleep. 

Long past the time he usually takes the first steps into the dream world—or in his case, the cacophony of nightmares—he’s still tossing and turning. It’s not the sticky heat that seems to plague him, but rather the anticipation of something finally happening that keeps him up. It’s stupid. His mind is hazy as he checks the time on his phone, yet not hazy enough to slip into that wreck of a slumber. 

00:34

His fingers tap mindlessly on the screen. Nothing. No messages, no mail, not even a scammer he could mess with for once. He’d work on finally updating and organising information about the smaller planets near Penacony, but even that’s barred from him via Pom-Pom’s stern insistence that there not be more than one sleep-deprived fool on this train. He doesn’t particularly wish to know the conductor’s wrath, so he does what they say. 

00:40

It’s a disgusting sort of lethargy. He can’t will his eyes to stay closed, yet he can’t bring himself to summon Cloud-Piercer either to numb his mind from his thoughts. 

He grits his teeth, and he can feel each molar grind against another. Bone against bone. 

Pathetic. 

He checks his phone one last time, and turns it off for good. Perhaps if he wasn’t so unlucky this night, he might have seen the message that came up just a few minutes after it powered off. 

01-04-XXXX

<Frankenstein & Co.> 02:59 > [robot.jpeg attached]  02:59 > Yeah this one looks like you lmao

<You> … < 03:04 Wow. You’re such a comedian. < 03:04 If you ever need a gig with the Masked Fools I’m sure they’ve got plenty of vacancies. < 03:05

03:05 > Cope bro 10:56 > Btw Welt picked up takeout from the Space Station 10:57 > Hurry up before I eat your share too

(+4 unread messages)

21-04-XXXX

<I’ll get you a satanic… mechanic> 00:55 > We’re both shit at communicating  00:55 > I’m coming to the archives in half an hour to put back the files, since I know you’re probably awake. Might as well talk it out.   00:56 > If you’re sleeping I won’t bother you  00:57 > We’ll just figure it out tomorrow I guess

Dan Heng has never been particularly fortuitous. Perhaps that’s why the message only gets delivered and not read. Perhaps that’s why he staves off the urge to check out his schedule for tomorrow in favour of rest. 

When they call him unapproachable, maybe luck also thinks of him that way. Sure, Dan Feng’s had his own share of misfortuned days, but tonight might just be the unluckiest night in this incarnation's life. 

When does it start?

In his memories, it might’ve been triggered by the gradual heat spreading across his limbs. His skin is molten across flesh: scorched to its very bones. Everything’s so tight—it’s no wonder that he throws his shirt into the corner next to him. He’s left breathing heavily in only sweatpants, and still they’re too cumbersome, too constricting. 

What’s the cause of it all?

It might’ve been catalysed by the dizzying feeling playing on his mind that started a while ago. He’s entranced: wandering through a fog that seems to have no end, all in the hopes of catching a glimpse of whatever’s making his heart flutter all hummingbird-like. 

Or maybe it’s the faint traces of you still clinging to the air. 

At first, he can’t quite pinpoint where it’s coming from. When he turns his head on his pillow, the strands of a clean soap grow stronger—so he reaches out. His fingers brush against soft fabric, and the man freezes with his fist clenched around your sweater. 

It’s yours. 

Somehow, your presence hasn’t yet been washed out from the threads. And for whatever damned reason, pressing it near his face is lulling him into a better stupor than that cursed drink ever did. 

It’s not enough. 

He buries his face in the material—by now, he’s practically drinking in all the intricacies of your scent. Inhale. Notes of orange peel, the subtle shift of soap, and the disorienting tang of diesel. Exhale. His mouth is half-open: too caught up in the throes of whatever this is to close. Unbearable. That’s what it is: a deep tension right below his navel that forces him to slowly lose his senses. 

One hand is firmly clenched around the fabric pressed to his face, while the other discards the stifling blanket that’s only suffocating him further. But as he does so, he accidentally brushes against the front of his sweatpants.

His heart skips a beat, then bangs against his ribcage particularly loudly. 

“Ah,” he gasps out. A chaotic pulse registers, deafening, along his ear canal. There’s a realisation that trickles honey-slow through his brain. It’s not like he’s explored this way of tiring himself out.

Aeons. 

He’s never felt so perverted. 

He’s never felt so conflicted. 

Was it not enough that he had that dream about you back on Argo-I? 

Aha must be gleefully orchestrating this twist of fate—he’s sure of it—as this defies rational thought. He should not be getting turned on to the smell of his friend that invades his senses and overwhelms him so completely. 

It’s not him, he justifies weakly. It’s just the feeling of there being another person. Well, with that sort of logic, Nous is itching to accept him into the folds of the Genius Society. 

There’s that strong, bubbling shame that lays heavy in his chest; however, the tightness in his lower abdomen is catalysing its destruction. It doesn’t help that he’s losing himself in the warm scent of you, and the shortness of breath that comes with covering one’s mouth and nose in thick fabric. No, it definitely helps. Shame aside, he somehow hasn’t crossed the precipice of perversion; the hand that isn’t lodged firmly against the material is merely resting atop his bare torso. 

He can’t bring himself to trail his fingers lower. 

It’ll help with sleeping, he rationalises once more. His head is heavy, and his self-control is slowly slipping as he keeps breathing you in. 

What would he say? If you saw him—face flushed, nuzzled into your clothing; chest bared with hardened nipples from both his arousal and the stream of cool air; sweatpants tight across his hips—what would you do? Would you leave in disgust (eyes trailing briefly across the body of what can only be called a pervert)? Would you curse him out in that rough voice of yours (then never speak to him ever again)?

Would you help him out?

The very thought of it makes his pulse bloom vibrant in his head—desperate to be heard, desperate to rip through his skull. It is also a sobering notion. 

He turns his body until he’s flat on his stomach with his face buried in the sweater currently draped over his pillow. The action is meant to rob his breath and calm his racing thoughts, but this really isn’t his lucky day. 

“Mmh,” he whines into the fabric when the pressure of his weight exerts itself right on his crotch. It was an accident, he later swears, but he can’t bring himself to move from this position. His mind is growing numb—not in the way he wants it to—but something so carnally perverse it brings an even greater flush to his face. 

Despite the futility of the gesture, he can’t help but squeeze his eyes shut in one last desperate bid for sleep. In his mind, he’s begging for slumber without having to resort to that. However, it’s fruitless: pointless in every sense of the word. Him attempting to relax even further just makes the warm sheets brush against his naked chest—and with his eyes closed, it feels more like hands gently cupping around the area. 

He gives up. 

He feels so much shame that he’s delirious on it as he grinds against the thick material of the futon. Dan Heng knows he shouldn’t be doing this—rutting himself against his bed desperately while his teeth leave small marks in your sweater—but the irrational part of his mind has long taken over. 

It’s not enough. It’s nothing more than a brief morsel of pleasure—far from being able to sate his hunger and quench his thirst. 

The hour is late enough that he doesn’t feel particularly cautious as he turns back to face the glimmering ceiling. There’s an unspoken rule on the Express: don’t step into the Archives once the light goes out. Therefore, he abandons the caution he usually employs in this small space and slips his cold fingers past the waistband. 

He hisses as his frigid hand wraps around himself, thumb brushing just past the leaking tip in a way that is simultaneously overbearing yet simply not enough. 

It’s not like he’s never done this before, but it was more of a perfunctory experiment rather than anything—and being chased by a homicidal maniac does little to get him off. 

His other hand abandons the plush material of your clothing to tug sharply at his nipples—jaw clamping down on the threads to prevent the rushed moan from leaving him as he rolls them with gelid fingers. He’s sensitive: every harsh application of pressure shoots straight through his neurons and into his brain, and that’s slowly frying. 

“Mmh—” he slurs around the fabric in his mouth, practically gagging on it as he paws at his tits. 

The garment obstructing his vision and airways feels so empty that he can’t help but assign some sort of meaning to it. What would it be like if it were replaced by him instead?—he thinks, and the very notion causes his cock to twitch within the confines of his fingers. Your hand might be twined through his hair just like this: tugging on the strands as you manoeuvre him to fit exactly against you. Your thighs might clamp around the sides of his face like this: locking him there while he takes you down his throat. 

It could be him, and the concept is shoved to some disused, forgotten corner of his mind with just a phrase. 

He’s just a friend, and the words taste bitter in his mind.  

As if to forget, his fist hastens its pace and he’s rocking his hips into the motion. It’s rough—nothing like how he usually would be so methodical with this. Then again, it’s clear that he’s not trying to emulate his own ways while his hand wraps around himself; but he doesn’t want to acknowledge exactly who he’s imitating. 

It’s still not enough.

The garment stretches taut across his motions: too constricting for him to reach that high that he senses clouding the edges of his consciousness. Before, these sorts of actions were experimental—not meant to induce pleasure or buzz his mind, but simply a perfunctory exploration of his own body. Yet now, it’s clearly evolved into him chasing the haze as though he’s nothing more than some slut. 

He hisses as he slips the waistband of his pants down with a tacky hand—the darkness enveloping him only makes the cold air sharp against his sensitive skin. 

The darkness also grants him reprieve; it reminds him that he’s alone in this moment, and no one will know of his sins come morning. 

An absence of light also leads to his other senses growing more profound. Neuroplasticity. The term refers to the nervous system and senses rewiring themselves due to various stimuli, such as losing a sense. 

Without sight, he can clearly hear the sticky shick-shick as he fucks into his fist. He can hear every shift of skin against skin—every lewd squelch when he pumps his hand downwards. He can hear the rustling of clothing as it adheres to the pre-cum spilling from his tip. He can hear each bitten groan as it leaves his lips, muffled against you. Or at least, your sweater. 

Most of all, he can hear the desperate drumming of his racing heart as it acclimates to his sudden hunger for ecstasy.

+8 unread messages

21-04-XXXX 

<I’ll get you a satanic… mechanic> 00:55 > We’re both shit at communicating  00:55 > I’m coming to the archives in half an hour to put back the files, since I know you’re probably awake. Might as well talk it out.   00:56 > If you’re sleeping I won’t bother you  00:57 > We’ll just figure it out tomorrow I guess 01:14 > You really should turn on your read receipts sometime 01:14 > I can’t tell if you’ve read these or not but I’ll assume you’ve seen them  01:14 > Since you’re usually still up and around at this time 01:15 > I’m almost done with writing up the Migrides report for the Society, so I’ll be there in like five to ten minutes? I’m turning right back if you’re asleep though 

His pulse damn near bursts out of his chests as he speeds the motions of his hands up: one clenched tight around himself, while the other draws crude circles into his hardened nipples. It’s not perfect, not by any means—it’s sloppy and undignified, so unlike how he is that he half-wonders what possessed him. 

But the rough, hurried pace allows him to dissociate from himself briefly. It’s not he who ravishes himself, but the careless approximation of you pressing hard against his weeping cock: jerking it this way and that as tears leak down his flushed cheeks. 

As he imagines you knelt between his legs, the debauchment—the shame—paints his cheeks a garish red. There’s no way to take it back; he’s already crossed a line he shouldn’t have, and he can’t stop himself from doing so. Every time he forces the image into the forgotten recesses of his mind, you’re there again: spreading his legs while you make a mess between them. 

He can’t stop. He can’t stop. You’re not allowed to stop, not when he’s almost trespassing the brink of pleasure. Hurriedly, he twists his hand—your hand—just so and his stomach heaves as though on a particularly rough starskiff. 

His skin feels feverish—on the very brink of delirium and madness—but there’s still something missing. 

More, his body begs. He’s so empty, and the feeling is so foreign he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Or, more accurately, he knows full well what to do, which is precisely why he’s so hesitant to even formulate the thoughts and go through the motions. 

Slowly, his fingers trail down the vertical dip in his stomach, past the valley of his waist, and nestle neatly between his spread legs. 

There are two crucial things that he’s unawares of, much to his detriment. One, that the time is precisely nineteen minutes past the system hour—the sand in the hourglass paves the path to your arrival. Two, the door to the archives isn’t nearly as soundproof as he thinks. Of course, he’s experienced this himself—hearing the bass thrum through the panels of your own door—but it’s not occurring to him that this applies to his own as well.

Instinctively, he muffles his whines and moans, just in case. But honestly, it’s hard to focus on cutting off his noises when he’s roughly jerking his palm while fucking himself on his fingers. 

It’s hard to focus on anything, except the faint trail of metal still lingering in the air. Human-loved liquor rarely weaves those blessed by Long into its viscous spell, yet somehow the merest whisper of your presence forces upon him unmatched drunkenness. 

And you’ll never know the effect you have on him. Not when he’s so painfully hard, not when he’s stuffing himself with his fingers and pretending it’s you. Sweat laves him tonight, and he is baptised in the filth of his own lust. 

“So close,” he slurs in his delirium. At least in the cover of the endless night, when the only light comes from the glow of data, his body is as honest as his thoughts. 

Which is to say, not very honest at all. 

There’s something missing—something so slight, yet profound enough to add a counterweight to his tipping into ecstasy. He can’t move past the precipice; blankness simply eludes him. Though, whenever he thinks of you, that path to hedonistic pleasure is that much clearer. 

The steady hum of data calibrating itself to Astral Express standards should be the primary sound washing over this enclosed space, but the low whir is delegated to the sidelines. He’s chanting your name in broken, garbled syllables; if it were any louder, there wouldn’t be any relative machine humming to speak of in the first place. 

In fact, the same word practically drowns out any other awareness he has of the environment. Maybe if he hadn’t been mindlessly spilling your name from his lips, he might’ve been just the tiniest bit luckier. 

Alas, Dan Heng’s soul is far less fortunate than one can imagine. 

This set of banal coincidences—a lack of soundproofing, his weakening senses, and his decision to turn his phone off for the night, him avoiding you—all culminate into his impending doom. 

In the first heartbeat following this revelation from fate, your footsteps slowly make their way from your room: feet sinking into plush carpet with a languorous sort of amble that doesn’t belie the neurotic twitch of your hands as you walk towards the person who’s avoided you successfully for however many days. In any other set of circumstances, he would’ve picked up on the tiniest of disturbances outside and nearby his door: down to the very buckles of your outfit clinking together, down to the creak in your boots as you shifted impatiently. 

In the second heartbeat, you pause outside the door—hand poised to knock in an awfully ironic mirror of him just a few months ago. 

How naive. If he saw this picture right now, he would’ve told himself to never board this Express. 

You pause outside the door, and it’s reached a point where the sounds escaping his parted lips are lulled. Or, more accurately, they escape with each exhale—natural as crying, to the point where one might think he’s having a particularly vivid nightmare. There’s nothing to suggest what’s actually going on.

This, therefore, is the last moment he has to not screw this up any further. 

But—

There is a very strong ‘but’.

—Dan Heng has already established his inaptitude for fortune. 

Had he seen you right now, he would’ve witnessed the turn in your shoulders as you accept the small noises as him just having a nightmare. Plausible explanation. There’s enough circumstantial evidence and midnight encounters to immediately come to that conclusion, then leave him to inevitably wake up on his own. 

However—however—you simply don’t turn away fast enough. Or, Dan Heng has the worst timing to ever exist. Maybe it’s the first reason for this calamity, maybe it’s both, but looking back on it, it was definitely the latter explanation. 

He’s so close. 

As he’s hastily sliding his hand up and down his weeping cock, while his fingers probe at unfamiliarity, your name slips from his mouth once more. These fateful sound waves ripple and poke past the wooden door, far enough to reach your ears and freeze your steps. 

“Dan Heng?”

He must’ve hallucinated it. But that’s your voice, so hushed and tender that his flesh throbs beneath his fingers. 

Shivers descend on his body—so profound his vision goes white for a brief moment—and thick ropes of cum spurt out onto his stomach. He’s so sensitive, but he needs so much more: rocking back onto his fingers while his slick walls clamp down onto them. 

“Ah,” he whines out, in tandem with the door opening. 

Finally. 

That grabs his attention, and his hips stutter to a grinding halt as his head turns to the side. Glossy eyes lined with unshed tears stare at the mirage to his right—it’s you, illuminated by the low glow of the data banks and the dim light in the background. 

No. 

You’re real. 

His breath hitches. Like a deer caught in headlights, he’s frozen; except in this scenario, it’s much worse than a quick hit-and-run. Dan Heng’s a mess right now. There’s globs of white pearled across his chest and stomach, there’s the fact that one hand is still cupping his hard dick, there’s still the image of the fingers of the other hand nestled deep between his legs. There’s the drool leaking from his parted lips; there’s his fucked-out, hazed expression complete with burning cheeks; and perhaps the most incriminating factor, there’s your sweatshirt still draped across his pillow.

Aeons. No amount of explanations will ever save him. It’s why he can’t bring himself to scramble to piece together his shredded dignity.

“Uh,” you begin intelligently. There’s some sadistic (wholly unconcerned with his own situation) part of him that notes that this is the first instance he’s seen of you being struck dumb like this. 

It’s dim enough that you need a moment to process it, but he watches your eyes adjust. You take in his half-naked state, exactly where his hands are still positioned, and finally, that damned sweatshirt. 

He swallows, but no words escape his mouth. And frighteningly enough, he can feel himself twitch against his cold palm. 

“I really wasn’t expecting this when I came to confront you about avoiding me,” you mutter, firmly looking elsewhere as he pulls the sheets so they cover his legs and sits upright. “Did I cause some crisis within you? Is your attraction to me the reason you’ve been so distant?”

“I’m not…” Distant? Avoidant? Attracted to you? 

“I’m not interested in my friend like that,” he replies thickly. “I just needed to sort myself—ah—out before I could continue that relationship.”

If this were anyone else, this conversation would’ve ended a few minutes ago. If he were any closer to you, he would’ve left this area as soon as possible. Maybe it’s because you’re so distant that it’s possible to keep talking like this, like he isn’t still getting off on your words and the texture of his sheets on his painfully hard dick. 

There’s the evidence of his shame on his cheeks—such a dark red he feels lightheaded. 

“Ah, right,” you nod in understanding. “Because I didn’t hear my name being called out, and that’s definitely not my jumper lying there. You’re not interested.”

“Exactly,” he lies. He can’t gauge what exactly you’re probing him for, but he knows that you’re offering a chance out of this mess. 

This was a mistake. He screwed up—letting his irrational mind entrance him with you. No doubt, this was all due to the strange dream he had back on Argo-I that catalysed this disaster. He’s not interested in you—his friend. 

“Dan Heng,” you breathe. “You’ve been evasive ever since we returned from the Argo.”

He stiffens, watching cautiously as you lean against the doorframe. 

“I’ll leave after you truthfully answer one question of mine.” Your cadence is casual enough that he can’t hear judgement nor disgust within. Just kick me out, he wants to say. If he could, he’d want to undergo rebirth this instant so he’d forget all about this. 

“Why aren’t you yelling at me?” he blurts out.

“Do you want me to yell at you?” you counter. “It’s natural behaviour for people, is it not, to release tension this way?”

And perhaps, it is your indifference that is the most galling facet of this situation. 

“What do you want to know?” he instead asks, rather coldly. Do anything other than look at me like that! But here you are, picking at your nails as if he’s not just bared his vulnerable body in your presence. 

It’s weird, so weird, and if the Masked Fools ever picked apart his memory and witnessed this scene… Well, he doesn’t even want to think about the numerous ways they’d publish it. This is perhaps the most humiliating and bizarre experience he’s ever had; worst of all, it appears completely one-sided. 

“Dan Heng.” You shake your head in disappointment. Slight mockery coats your tongue, and he flinches with the sudden heat in his abdomen. To think, you’ve never called his name in this realm before today—but the shame he’s experiencing has caused the sudden influx in your vocabulary. It’s hilariously, painfully ironic. “I was wondering why it was the Argo cluster in particular that triggered this.”

An ominous prelude to your question.

“You lied to me on the last day, didn’t you?”

The dream. The damned dream. You know. Somehow, you’re aware of what exactly it was that he’d dreamed. 

He holds his breath. 

“But I won’t be as cruel as to ask that just yet.” So what will you ask in its stead?

You shift until you’re at your full height, and he’s hyper aware of the piercing—knowing—glint in your eyes as you assess him. “Out of all your days at that bar, did you happen to spot the blinding red poster behind the counter?”

Now that you mention it, he does faintly recall the edge of crimson in the deep recesses of his memory. Mutely, he nods (after all, he doesn’t trust himself to not stick the final nail in his own coffin).

“Perfect,” you drawl sarcastically. “Then, can you tell me what was written on that poster?”

No. He finds that he can’t. And what is the reason for that? He doesn’t know. 

(He does know. For the same reason his blood chases the heaving gulps of oxygen, his gaze flitted only to you for that brief week—but that will go unacknowledged by him.)

“Archivist—” and it’s the first time you’ve used his title so callously, so bluntly. “—for someone whose job it is to collect information, you sure didn’t do a good job at knowing that overconsumption of anything is bad for your health.”

His fingers twitch. Shameful. How utterly shameful it is—how abhorrent—that even as your words cut through skin and flesh and reach tender marrow, his heart rate quickens with adrenaline. 

“Do remind me,” he mutters. Perhaps if he were a little wiser, he would’ve searched up the drink as soon as he left the Argo, ignoring the prickles of chagrin that pierced him as he thought about it. 

“Overconsumption of this particular drink can lead to migraines and hallucinations.” Yes, he faintly recalls the sound of those words as the bartender warned him about all those neatly lined coupe glasses. Just like a fool, he didn’t pay much heed to the warnings he heard as though it were mere alcohol. Easily handled, easily managed. Except it wasn’t. 

“That’s not all, is it?” For the first time, he can see your slight hesitation as you mull over the final consequence. 

“No. There’s also the ability to project into dreams that aren’t wholly your own.”

Oh. Oh. His mind reels. 

You were there, and you saw all of it. 

“You—” he cuts himself off as he notices you standing only a foot or so away, peering down at him as you reach for your sweater. Your scent invades his senses—so much more potent than the insignificant material bearing only traces of you. 

“I’ll be taking my leave.” You’re still leaning over him. The folds of your clothes brush just right past his naked torso, and he flinches back as though he’s been scalded by the proximity. “Thanks for confirming what I needed to know, friend.”

It happens as you’re beginning to move back. Unprompted, his hand reaches out to grab your wrist and you drop the sweater you were holding. 

Surprised, you stare at him with your lips parted. The distance is insignificant; in fact, he can feel the warm gusts of your breathing right on his collarbones. 

“So you do want me,” you comment smartly, and he averts his eyes to look anywhere but your laughing gaze. 

“I still don’t,” he mutters, but his voice quivers far too much to hold only truths. He’s my friend, and nothing else. 

“Then, should I go? Leave you to deal with this alone?” The words brush honey-sweet against raw skin—they brutally remind him of your position. You’re kneeling slightly on the futon, back bent a crude seventy degrees as you lean over his legs to grab your sweater once more. A rough palm is firmly planted by his side (he’s terribly conscious of the warmth it radiates) while the other is locked in his own grasp. 

“Are you offering?” he challenges: pure irreverence dulls his cadence. 

“If you ask nicely, I might help out my dear friend.” A crescent smile is present on your face; innocuous enough, but he can sense the sharpness just waiting to cut him. It was a mistake. Getting involved with the Express was a horrible mistake. Every time he inhales, he can smell those mandarins and the soapy scent of you—the metal, the caffeinated drinks, you. Even your terrible, doom-ridden smile has long turned sweet; the only danger it brings is the heated surge straight through his stomach. 

He’s willing to help. 

“And if I don’t ask nicely?” It’s not like him to be this brash, but Aeons know just how insane he’s feeling tonight. 

“Then I bid you good luck in whatever you were doing before,” you whisper, moving to disentangle your fist from his shaking fingers. 

And he admitted I’m just a friend too. 

Selfishly, he refuses to let your arm go. 

“Dan Heng?”

“If it’s just for tonight…” he exhales. After tonight, the regular back-and-forth would be reestablished, right? His bottom lip wobbles, and he catches your eyes flickering to the small motion. 

“You act like you’re doing me a favour,” you sneer. Is it normal for his pulse to accelerate as you look at him with such disdain? Is it normal for his heart to drop when you wrench yourself free of his grasp and stand to head to the door?

“Where are you going?” He hates how it sounds like he’s whining like some damn mutt, hates how hard he feels at the slightest hint of your displeasure, hates you for making him feel like this. 

“Locking the door,” you remark. “I’m not like you—so desperate that anyone can just walk in and see you with your legs spread.”

“Mmh,” he sighs out at each blunt syllable that leaves your cruel lips. He’s too far gone to feel shame about it; more accurately, you made him this way. Nothing’s in his head except you—his mind’s whirling as you kneel back down at his side, heart pounding desperately out of his chest. 

His eyes squeeze shut as you ghost closer; fear poisons his vessels as he moves back slightly. 

“No kissing,” he insists, since that will feel far too much like that dream. Something so intimate doesn’t belong here—his only goal is to break away from this night and resume his friendship as cleanly as possible. 

“Okay.” He can picture your raised brows as you wonder exactly what about a kiss is more amorous than the very act of intercourse. “Just the lips, or everywhere?”

Against his will, his face flushes a far deeper red than it had previously. Crimson is fading into your vision—as visible as his glossy, tear-lined eyes—and he knows you see it clearly. How can you not? After all, he can feel the heavy pressure of your gaze as you look directly at his face. Not his body, nor his clenched fists, but right at his face. Strangely, that feels far more intimate than anything else. 

“Just the lips,” he stammers. 

Aeons willing, his heart won’t stop anytime soon. While it feels like his very cells will collapse in on themselves with how hard his pulse thuds, he hopes they’ll continue enduring just a little bit longer. 

“Okay,” you breathe once more—except this time, he doesn’t hear it so much as feel it brush gently over his collarbone. Blooming like flowers, your mouth leaves a meadow behind on his clavicle; he can’t help but throw his head up to be closer to you, to allow you to mark him up more. 

Every place you suck a bruise into burns white-hot. He knows he should pragmatically stop you from claiming the base of his throat and above (if only to preserve his dignity when he faces the rest of the Express come morning) but he can’t bring himself to hide this: for one night, he lay in your arms. 

He knows that he should’ve limited you from placing your warm mouth anywhere. What will he do tomorrow? When he sees the blossoming violets seeping into his dermis in the morning, how will he look you in the eyes cordially while knowing it’s your fault? While he waits for his sore body to recover, how exactly will he maintain friendship?

“Don’t worry your pretty head so much,” you whisper, and oh, you must’ve seen the furrow in his brows while getting some air and admiring your handiwork in the dim light of data shelves. A palm splayed flat on his bare chest—warm, just like the man it’s attached to—pushes him firmly onto his futon once more, until his back hits his pillow and his elbows prop himself up. It’s a testament to your words: forget the turbulent thoughts, and just think about this moment. 

Pretty, he thinks drunkenly. He thinks I’m pretty. And though it’s, quite frankly, stupid to be flustered over that when there are plenty of better reasons to be flustered right now, he can’t help but squeeze his eyes shut even tighter at the word. 

Your mouth moves lower, teeth grazing the grooves of his abdomen—and his back arches into the sensation of soft lips. 

“Aeons— ah—” he moans as you lave your tongue across where the still-sticky rivulets of cum remain. To make matters worse, the rough pad of your thumb rubs callous circles against his nipple: sensitive from his earlier toying. But oh, it feels so much better than when he’d given them his amateur attention. He can’t help but shudder into the touch: so robotically precise he wonders whether you view people like your machines too. Does he do this with others as well?

The question creates a sickening, furious heat in his gut. One of his hands lifts and grips your shoulder, digging through the loose shirt you wear and into the firm skin beneath. 

He finally opens his eyes to look down at you—your brows slightly raised as you continue cleaning up the mess he made from the side, tongue darting out to catch every last drop—and his dick stiffens painfully from where it’s still covered. 

Salty, he thinks he hears you mutter to yourself. Maybe that’s the last straw, or maybe it’s you washing your tongue over your lips as if not to miss anything. Neither of those things matter—he needs you to expedite whatever you were going to do, now.

“Hurry– hurry up,” he gasps as your other hand brushes his hip bone, dangerously close to where the sheet covers. 

“So impolite,” you mock. Suddenly, that same hand wrenches the sheet down, and he lets out a groan as his naked flesh is bared to the cold air once more—he sees you don’t miss his reaction. “Not even a please.”

You’re the one who’s impolite, he thinks—ogling at him while you’re still fully clothed. 

“Sure have a lot of demands for someone who got caught calling out my name,” you reply, and it’s then he realises that maybe he didn’t think that at all. Still, with a fluid motion, you discard your shirt to the side and he’s left gazing at the expanse of your skin once more. Just like in that dream. 

“Now who’s ogling?” you continue quietly, but he’s much too fixated on seeing the bare flesh that unconsciously, his hand reaches back up to trace the plains of your shoulder. Then, his focus shifts as you reposition yourself so you’re practically straddling his legs, essentially trapping him under you. 

His tongue flickers out to wet his lips. 

Thankfully—thankfully—that’s not the thing you notice as your eyes finally trail down. 

“Mmh—” he whines as your calloused hand grasps his stiff cock. You’re gentler than he thought you’d be—though it’s precisely that sort of friction he’d been looking for in the first place. It’s almost cautious; you swipe your thumb across his leaking slit experimentally, and he can hear his own breathing become more rapid and shallow. 

“So pretty,” you murmur. “Just like the rest of you.”

He blinks, and suddenly he’s looking down to where your gaze lies: where your hand almost dwarfs his flesh, where his mushroom tip glistens from his earlier release, and where you’re slowly pumping it from shaft to base. 

Yes, he thinks, it is a pretty sight—but only because you’re in it too. 

He freezes. 

I can’t think that way. 

Dan Heng gasps as you remove your hand from him, shamelessly licking up the remaining liquid from your hand. The very sight causes his mind to go blank: body burning, stomach churning.  

“Why’d you stop—” he slurs his words, lids blinking slowly despite the scalding flush of adrenaline spreading through his limbs. “—not fair.”

Gently, you grab the hand that rests on your shoulder, pressing a small kiss to it while he hears the sound of a zipper. The sweet gesture forces his eyes open completely��if you moved any closer, you’d be able to hear his maddened heartbeat. 

“I’m not stopping,” you assure him. Warm fingers easily thread through his, and he gasps as your dick presses against his. His teary pupils can’t bear to look down—feel how you’re rubbing the pieces of flesh together in a dizzying rhythm.

Just like clockwork, he presses his freehand to the back of yours: stuck together in perpetual motion. He can hear the soft shick-shick as you move your palm up and down; feel the heat of your skin as it radiates into his own cold hands; see the faint smile as you stare at him beneath you. 

It feels so good—and normally, he’d never give in to the facetious pleasure that waits to slit his throat while he’s in its tender embrace. 

Pressing his lips together, he removes his hands from yours and loops them around your neck. If he feels closely, he can sense the steady race of your pulse—something that belies the surprise you hide in your languid expression. Like this, your body is forced closer to his (or more precisely, his body is forced closer to yours). 

You sigh out as his nails dig into your fragile human flesh; he’d think you were in pain had it not been for the small exhales you’d let out as you sped up your pace. When you hiss out—breathing shallow from him, from the man cursed to be Dan Heng—he can’t help but throb in your hold. 

He’s had that effect on you. Not anyone else, not those people pressed against you in the club who wanted your fragments, but him. 

“So infuriating,” you grind out with gritted teeth. He buries his face in the valley between neck and shoulder, breathing in the soapy scent from the juncture as your hands become harsher. Rougher. 

Dan Heng occupies his loud mouth by suckling right onto your neck—stealing his breath away while the pleasure builds up in the pit of his stomach. 

You lean back slightly, and suddenly the hand that was propping your weight up firmly grabs the side of his waist—and he thinks he can see the stars within the confines of these four walls. You notice—of course you do—the ragged panting coming from him, and he can see the grin forming on your face in his mind. 

How shameful. 

He stares back with crescent eyes and dark red cheeks lining them. 

“Pervert.” Two syllables. Two syllables, accompanied by a harsh squeeze of his side, before he comes undone. Arching into you with a choked cry, more strings of cum spurt from his tip: coating his stomach and yours with an unmistakable affirmation of your words. No, word (singular), because for whatever Aeon-forsaken reason, his body chose in particular to respond to your insult. 

Spit connects his mouth to your skin—face still in your shoulder as if to hide from you. His chest rises and falls rapidly: tits pressed against your own chest as he whines with the overstimulation. 

It’s no good. Your hands keep moving, and he’s still so painfully hard he can barely breathe. 

“‘M– I’m not,” he garbles, even as you poke at the sticky liquid dripping from his sides. 

“Are too,” you murmur, but the teasing doesn’t comfort him the way he thought it would. No, tomorrow when your regular back-and-forth is reestablished, he’ll only think of this night—how you feel on him, how well you touch his body. 

“Don’t stop,” he whimpers as you pause the movements that keep driving him to many brinks. 

“I’m not.” He’s putty under your hands as you twist his body with such deftness that he wonders where you get it from. Lugging around heavy machines certainly does leave you with some muscle there—he doesn’t realise the position he’s in until he feels your torso move against his plush ass. 

His chest presses down against the futon, face barely escaping the same fate as he turns it to the side to avoid suffocation. If he had to describe this situation, it would be humiliating—arched straight into the air with you kneading the soft expanse of flesh like it were fucking bread. 

It finally sets in. 

He’s about to get fucked by his closest friend in this cycle—and he hates how stiff the thought makes him. 

But surprisingly—since you’re so damn full of surprises—you instead part the sensitive flesh of his thighs and instead fill the gap there. He’s so empty, but in this position, your tip catches against his every time you drill into the space; that (begrudgingly) makes up for it. Somewhat. 

“Stop delaying it,” he groans as he feels more of his cum dribble down onto his sheets. What more do you want from him?

“Dan Heng,” you instead hover over him, grasping his waist like handlebars. He hates this so much—how easily you manoeuvre him, how good the pain of your nails feels against his touch-deprived skin. 

Most of all, he hates how depraved he feels—using his closest friend for this. 

“Has anyone ever told you how pretty your thighs are?” you groan above him, and he swears he can feel the vibrations right against his cock. “Or how gorgeous your waist is?”

It should be insulting. He’s a guard and archivist, not some object to ogle at under your heated gaze. Yet, contrary to his expectations, he can only suppress the violent urge to just cum on the spot from those words. You like his body. 

Not as a warrior, not as a weapon for the protection of the Luofu, but simply because he’s beautiful in your eyes. 

“No,” he replies through a breathy moan, clutching desperately at the shirt you discarded that’s lying right next to his face. You notice, of course. Nothing really escapes your sharp eyes, not even when it’s dark and he’s trying to hide. “I can’t say anyone has.”

“You’re so cute.” And when you say those three words, you press a quick kiss to the nape of his neck while one of your hands lazily jerks him off. 

However, that’s not what pushes him to the brink. It’s when you finish—hot streams dripping down his inner thighs as you let out a muffled groan right next to his ear. That’s when he shivers. That’s when his heart pulses extra loudly for one beat and his breath hitches. That’s when his body tightens and he spills once more onto his sheets. 

“Ah,” he gasps as he continues thrusting weakly into your hand. Your body’s heavy as you lean your forehead into his neck: warm breath tickling his nape and making his whole body shudder from the sensation. 

“Are— are you finally going to–” he’s cut off as you pull away from his thighs; scalding residue is left between them, and every time he shifts it squelches. 

“Man, your biology really is different.” He can feel you smile against his skin as you don’t let go of him. He’s practically caged in by your body at this point—but strangely, he doesn’t seem to mind. “Already eager to go?”

“Don’t avoid the question,” he grips the material of your shirt so tightly he can feel his nails dig into his palm. “Actually, don’t answer my question with a question of your own.”

“Still so vocal,” you shake your head slightly. Much too casually, you tighten your grip around him in a ring and he has to clamp his jaw shut so as to not let out any more wanton noises. He can’t give you the satisfaction of proving yourself right.

“You’re just too slow.” He doesn’t know why he’s provoking you. 

“You’re just too impatient,” you hiss. 

It’s worth it. It’s worth it when you nudge at his hole with your tip; worth it when you stretch him out just around the shaft. 

“Mmph— more,” he moans shamelessly at the burn. When he attempts to sink down further, your hands grip his waist in such a way that prevents him from moving an inch. It hurts, more than his fingers did—but he can’t help wanting to just take it. 

“You sure?” 

In one fell swoop, you bury yourself to the hilt in his tight hole—and he practically screams at the sudden intrusion. His body tightens almost immediately, yet the relief never comes when he feels your fingers tightly wrap around him to prevent release. 

Tears stream down his flushed cheeks, and he can clearly see the sadistic smile on your face as his glossy eyes meet yours—ruining his climax while there’s not a single speck of remorse in your ruthless gaze. 

“Fuck you–” he grits out. Stemming his tears is a futile attempt. 

“That’s your job,” you grin. Pulling out just so your tip remains, it doesn’t exactly take a genius to figure out what you’re going to next. “Remember, Dan Heng, patience is a virtue.”

He’s still reeling from the ruined orgasm when you slam into him again. The man swears he can feel you in his very throat as his chest tightens from the impact—and the broken moans he’s been suppressing come out once more at full volume. 

You don’t give him any time to adjust; rather, you set a pace so thorough that the gummy spot inside of him is hit every time. Still, there’s no mercy for him—your hand prevents his release on each occasion he gets close to it. 

He can feel your own body tense up. Maybe, as a gesture of goodwill, that’s when you finally let go of him and take hold of his waist once more. On his skin, your hand is tacky from a mixture of both you and him. 

Using both hands, you pull him into you just as your pelvis collides with his own flesh; with each plap of sticky skin against skin, he lets out a cut-off mewl that simply fades into the next. Over and over. 

This is a special form of madness. 

“Please, please—” he doesn’t even know what he’s asking for, only that it’s the only thing he can say at this moment. 

It seems this has some effect on you—he can feel your abdomen stiffen as you grit out a question. “Where do you want it?”

“Inside,” he breathes. Perhaps that’s your last straw. Perhaps his voice like this is too much for you; not even a minute later, he can feel searing rivulets seep deep into him—so warm and slippery. 

“Hng–” he moans out. The feeling’s too much. With a desperate sob, he’s finally allowed to cum too: an awful, mind-numbing sensation that wracks his whole body with ruined pleasure. His chest heaves up and down—milking you for all you’re worth as he continues to ride it out. If you look closely, you’d see his legs practically giving out as you loosen your grip on his waist ever-so-slightly. 

Your body looms over his trembling one, pressing kiss after kiss to his spine as he cries it out. 

Discordant breaths slowly dissipate into calmer ones—your comforting weight grounds him firmly to the present. 

When… did I start thinking that way?

As he’s soothed into stupor, he notices how your scorching palms slip from his sides and hold down his clenched fists—twining finger against finger in such a tender gesture he can feel his very shoulders deepen into carmine. 

You’re half-hard inside him, but he still needs so much more. When his sniffles die down, he notices you staring unabashedly at him: a mess, he’s sure, but he sees how enraptured you are. That, for some reason, makes the comment die down in his throat and replaces it with a poignant question. 

What do you think about me?

(But that’s not a question you should be asking your close friend, not when he’s firmly lodged within you with his chest pressed against your back.)

You rub circles against the slight veins that line the backs of his hands—rough shapes that somehow retain the essence of your mechanical certainty. It’s so fucking intimate he can’t help but feel his whole face burn: to the bitter point where he’s pressing it right against his tear-stained, sweat-stained pillow. 

“Want more,” he slurs, hissing sharply as you lean back far enough on your heels that you manage to seat him firmly in your lap. It’s so much deeper that he has to stifle his whines while you gaze at him with that annoyingly perceptive look. 

He’s reminded of your strength when you tug at his legs and manoeuvre him so he’s facing you, on your lap, while still stuffed full of you and his cum. There’s fat globs of white dripping from him in a frothy ring, but you clearly don’t care about any of that as you lean back on your palms impassively. 

“Your turn,” you prompt. 

And oh, as he feels himself get split apart at this angle, it’s a wonder he doesn’t fall apart at that instant. It hurts, relying on his legs to rise and fall on your dick—over and over—but by the Aeons he can’t stop his tears from being shed and his mouth from letting out some of his most embarrassing sounds. 

He’s so dizzy he almost collapses—but his hands digging into your trapezius muscles provides a tentative support to his shaky frame. 

“Jerk,” he gasps out as you palm him callously, meeting each bounce of his hips with your pelvis thrusting upwards. He can’t stop the whines that leave his spit-shined lips; every sticky skin-on-skin sound is accompanied by such. 

He can’t go as fast as he wants, nor can he go as high as he wants, but that allows him to observe the irritated glint in your eyes as you duck your head. 

“What are you— ah—” he whimpers as your teeth graze his puffy nipple; his back curves into an arch unconsciously to press his tits more to your face, and he can’t help but feel embarrassed at how easily his body responds to your motions. 

As your tongue laves wet circles round the areola, while your hand roughly strokes him and you fill him up so, so good, he clutches at your body for dear life when he feels that familiar feeling building up in his stomach. 

“So close,” he bites out, shuddering in your grasp as you bite lightly around the nipple. Combined with the twisting motion of your hands, and the irresistible smell of sweat and metal bleeding from your skin, it’s no surprise that he cums in glistening ropes: painting your skin once more. 

More tears leak from his eyes as you don’t slow down. Well, you do, but only to use the tight grip he still has on your shoulders to push him down so he’s under you once more. You resume just as quickly; by this point, it’s clear you’re chasing your own release. 

Beautiful, he thinks through hazy eyes. 

He glances to the side briefly, spotting the bag he vowed he’d carry out of here in time—then back at you. 

There’ll be more passengers. More people, vying for your attention like this. Will you treat them like this? Like friends, as he’s so aptly put it?

He pulls himself closer to you, watching as your eyes widen in brief surprise at the sudden proximity. 

“What’s wrong?” you murmur. “Want me to–”

You’re so considerate it makes him sick. Is this how you view friendship too?

Where is the boundary?

Gradually, you bring your hips to a slow roll as he continues staring directly at you. He almost whines at the loss of motion, but the dilated look in your pupils is enough to keep him sated. 

Need him. He squeezes tight around you; as soon as your eyelids flutter shut, he kisses you on the lips chastely—the brief contact of your lips against his is enough to almost make his eyes roll back in delight. 

Your eyes practically flinch: blown open in abject surprise as you stare at his bashful, flushed expression. He definitely can’t leave, but Aeons this attention makes him want to retreat back into himself. 

“Dan Heng,” you whisper. “What happened to your rule?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he mutters. “Not anymore.”

He’s not expecting you to immediately cup his face with a shaky hand, kissing him feverishly while you continue grinding against him languidly. The salt on your lips—the taste of himself—is enough to have him cum against you one last time in weak, watery spurts. 

He moans into your mouth: hands clutching at you for dear life while you shudder with your own climax. Never has he felt so spent; not even after hours-long battles. Sure, he’s felt cold detachment from the blood on his palms, but he’s burning at the moment. A veritable comet streaking right across the galaxies, made of all the cold ice he can imagine—but lit up as white-hot as a star. 

If he had to explain the feeling of prodding his tongue into your warm, wet mouth, it would most likely be the best sensation he’s ever experienced. He can’t stop: too drunk on your taste to think about anything else save you. 

When you have your best friend’s dick in you, it’s pretty hard to think of him as just a friend. 

“Not going anywhere,” he mumbles into the scalding skin of your neck. “I’ll stay right by your side.”

“What—changed your mind about us just being buddies?” you query mockingly, running your fingers into the valleys above his hips. This weight; it feels safe being caged in your arms like this, as though he’ll sleep without nightmares every night he’s entrapped like this. “Felt too good for a friends with benefits situation?”

“Shut up,” he huffs, weakly poking at your arm. “Don’t want you treating your other friends like this.”

He can feel you stifle your laugh. 

Perhaps, if he really looks at it, the standard TUL dialect definition of friendship applies to this situation. Mutual trust and affection. 

“Okay, okay,” you accede. There’s a fluttering sensation in his chest that accompanies his reddened cheeks, and it’s not due to the strenuous activities from a moment prior. “You’re mine, then.”

The clumsy framing somewhat fit at the beginning, but no longer. 

And if he really looks at it, he should reread the whole dictionary to make sure he doesn’t misunderstand any more of these concepts. 

　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　   ☾

[rozaceous]

tcba epilogue, hakumari snippet

i love sasuke but he's given no quarter here, i'm so sorry lmao

Sasuke comes to claim his daughter, rolls his eyes at them after reassuring them that the other two girls are kept busy and won’t be running out to bother them, and wanders back towards the house, leaving Haku with Mariko on the dock of the pond.

Haku has never disliked Sasuke, but the past several years have given him a distinct appreciation for the man, and they’ve become something like friends. Things like this just cement Haku’s judgment.

Even if he had been enjoying holding a sleeping Ayase.

Mariko notices, naturally.

“She’ll be awake again in a couple hours and screaming for food, and will be appropriately cuddly after,” she says, grinning.

Haku clears his throat. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“What impose?” Mariko returns with an unconcerned flap of her hand. She leans back against him until she’s fully reclined, one knee bent and her head rested on his thigh, looking up at him. “You’re welcome here, if that wasn’t clear, and Sasuke might like holding babies more than anyone else I’ve ever met, but it’s not like getting a break from doing so for a few days is a hardship.” Her eyes narrow, though her easy smile doesn’t fade. “Didn’t know you liked holding babies so much, though.”

Haku tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, huffing a laugh. “They have universal charm, I should think. Also, they’re yours, how could I dislike them?”

“Easier than you might think,” she says wryly. She looks at him more deeply, gaze gone assessing, but the moment is so utterly without tension that Haku doesn’t think anything of it until she continues, “Asking super bluntly and kinda out of nowhere, so feel free to take your time answering, but are children something you want?”

The hand he’d had resting on her ribs goes momentarily tense before he catches himself. He’s not sure how he’s meant to take such a question.

“Are you—Mariko? What are you saying?”

“Do you want kids? A kid. With me.”

“With—” Haku doesn’t know how to properly consider the concept. “You have a family, Mariko,” he says slowly, carefully. “You and Sasuke.”

“Sasuke is my family and we have children together,” she agrees. “But I love you and am probably going to keep loving you for the rest of my life, and we have a relationship together, and if you want that relationship to include children, it can. At least, as far as I’m concerned.”

From the way her eyes dart momentarily to the side, Haku interprets the ‘as far as I’m concerned’ as her personal insecurity regarding whatever reservations he might hypothetically have to having children together, rather than Sasuke taking issue. Still, to be clear—

“Is this something you’ve discussed with Sasuke?”

Mariko makes a half-scowl. “Sasuke gets to tell me what to do with my uterus approximately never. I do whatever I want and he can fucking bite me if he doesn’t like it.” But her sudden vitriol subsides immediately. “That’s to say, no, we haven’t talked about it, because I haven’t given it much serious thought before now, but I really don’t think he’d mind. We’re already so deviated from the norm, what’s one more thing? Plus, he’d get to hold more babies, I really don’t think he’d care if the baby was his? Or we wouldn’t have Yasumi.”

‘Deviated from the norm’ is correct; Haku hasn’t forgotten the apparently spontaneous adoption of Sasuke and Mariko’s first child, as at the time it’d felt like taking a lightning jutsu to his worldview, which had categorized the pair as deeply entwined but not at all romantic. Their subsequent genetic children of Kouka and Ayase was a further, though expected, blow to that view, but Haku had—resigned himself isn’t the right phrasing. His relationship with Mariko has always been fraught in some way or another; they were never going to be able to have a straightforward romance ending in marriage and a shared household. Haku has, thus, always been determined to make the most of what he does have with Mariko. He’s not interested in others; his interest is singular, and he can’t imagine anyone else commanding that interest to the same degree. His and Mariko’s circumstances and choices have simply precluded them from consistent closeness.

But this is—Haku has taken Sasuke as a particularly unjealous lover all this time. Yet surely no lover is so unjealous as to welcome another man’s children? But then why does Mariko seem so confident in her assessment?

Moreover, while Haku agrees that Mariko is the only person to determine her own actions and bodily autonomy—and woe betide the person who thought to tell her otherwise, indeed—it’s one thing to say that she does as she pleases, and another to willfully and incontrovertibly upset the dynamic of an established family and partnership.

And there are so many other considerations. Where would the child grow up? Haku has a hard time leaving Mist even for these few weeks, but the new, sudden thought of being estranged from his own child is less tolerable than even the distance between he and Mariko. But would he really have them raised in Mist, and become shinobi, part of the very system Mariko has worked to eradicate? And would he want to chance passing down his bloodline when he’s the last holder of the Ice Release? Could he put that burden on a child? Certainly, too, they wouldn’t have the Yuki name since he’d never taken it up himself, but it’s almost comically ridiculous to imagine a child of his bearing the name Uchiha. Yet how could they have a sense of ancestry and belonging without it?

Mariko presses a finger between his eyebrows; he realizes he’s started to frown.

“Not that you shouldn’t think hard about it,” she says gently, “but there’s no rush. Take your time. We’ll figure it out, however and whatever we want.”

The rush of affection he feels in response isn’t surprising, just an affirmation of his choices. Haku clasps her hand.

Mariko turns more humorous, her usual method of lightening a too-heavy mood. “I’m not doing another pregnancy for another year at earliest. Probably two or three years would be better, since I actually think I had Kouka and Ayase too close together. Like, between iryouninjutsu and basically turkey basting myself, physically I’ve done fantastic with such a short turnaround, but another baby too soon is too many babies being babies or toddlers at the same time and I do not have the stamina—”

She continues in this vein for another minute or so before Haku voices a lingering point of confusion.

“Turkey basted yourself?”

Mariko freezes. “Um. So like, I’m fine with you knowing, but maybe don’t say anything to anyone else, but, uh. Sasuke and I didn’t conceive Kouka and Ayase in the, uh, usual manner.”

Haku thinks forebodingly of her senpai’s history with human experimentation. “Mariko—”

“I just mean we didn’t have sex!” she blurts out in a panic, no doubt correctly reading whatever is in his expression. “It’s not anything freaky like I can tell you’re thinking! I worded that so bad, I’m sorry!”

Haku blinks. “You…didn’t have sex?”

Mariko gives him a put-upon look. He mercilessly waits for an answer.

“He ejaculated into a cup and I shoved the semen up my vag,” she says bluntly. “I knew I was ovulating so the egg fertilized both times, no need for a redo, but yeah. No sex.”

He tries to wrap his mind around this information. “Were you…having difficulty conceiving?”

He can’t really believe that’s the case. Mariko has enough skill as an iryouninja, and enough know-how, to facilitate a pregnancy without resorting to—this.

Mariko’s eyes narrow, then widen. “Haku,” she says, in the tone of someone who’s about to forcibly shift another’s paradigms, “Sasuke and I don’t have sex. At all. I’m sorry I let you assume otherwise, but it never seemed like it mattered to you? And everyone thinks we’re having sex, and we just never bother to correct them because it’s not anyone else’s business what we do or don’t do, and so I don’t even think to correct anyone. But I should’ve—” she clears her throat “—I should’ve told you. Explicitly. Before now. I’m really sorry. I honestly thought you didn’t care, but I guess that sounds like a poor excuse now that I’m saying it out loud.”

Haku looks down at their joined hands, which Mariko’s lightly squeezed. He thinks his entire brain has slowed. He feels rather like he did the time that he stayed awake for three days straight following a mudslide two years ago, too direly needed during the emergency to have time to sleep until he’d gotten so dazed that his sentences had ceased to cohere.

“You’ve never had sex with Sasuke?” he asks, slow, because even in interrogative form the words don’t seem right.

Mariko bites her lip. Haku stares.

“You can never tell,” she says finally, intensely. “Ever. You can’t even let on that you might suspect. But I haven’t said anything this whole time and now that I have the opportunity to tell someone, I think I’m going to explode if I don’t, holy shit. So.” Mariko’s eyes shift around, and Haku even feels the brush of jutsu as she ascertains that no one is within listening distance. “Look, in general, Sasuke’s feelings about sex can be summed up as ‘gross’ and ‘for other people,’ but it’s not like he doesn’t know that we’ve had sex. And if Sasuke was curious enough to give it a go, I was hardly going to say no, I love the guy and my eyes work, okay? So the one time Sasuke and I tried to have sex—well, I already used the word tried. Please understand what I’m saying.”

[diminuel]

I know that the baby dragon (roger garp coparents) comics are so silly and fun and i ABSOLUTELY LOVE THEM but i was trying to remember all the characters in the crowd in the live action (im only in dressrosa in the anime) and then i thought too much about about your comics and now im SAD!!!

Garp and Roger at the very least being friends and co parents and Garp essentially KILLING HIM in front of DRAGON. Like roger may or may not be his bio dad but thats his PIRATE dad (a la shanks) and that being the dissolution of their family unit. Also fem!croc (possibly) being in the crowd???? Maybe they meet again there. Do you think roger looked at their "son" when he died? Do you think garp couldn't look at him?? And then for garp to stand there on an execution platform with ace???? His friends kid?? His grandson???? But this time instead of standing silently like dragon did, luffy refused to save himself.

And rayleigh, RAYLEIGH couldnt be there in his best friends final moments, couldnt be there for dragon, his nephew/godson/whatever. But finally he was able to help luffy after marineford. Finally he could help his family after so many years, even if luffy didnt know.

Anyways, love your comics and art, its all very fun and cute, even if the implications get me.

Also i guess this wasnt really a question, but i wanted you to know what you inspired in my brain and kinda get your thoughts!

I’m always happy to know that my silly comics get you to think! I do enjoy drawing fun stuff but as you said, most of them have more serious or angsty implications if you do continue spinning the universe a bit.

Like with the Baby on Board comics (the coparenting one) I imagine that even though Roger and Dagon’s relationship starts out easy and light-hearted, there eventually must be a moment where Dragon no longer feels welcome among the Roger Pirates (most likely when he joins the marines at a young age). I can imagine that Garp and Roger both (not very gently) teaching him that choices have consequences – he chose the path of the marine, which means that pirates like Roger will now be his enemy. And Garp is, his situationship with Roger aside, kind of hard-headed about his sense of justice.

Still, in an AU where he spent a portion of his childhood on Roger’s ship, he’d be upset about watching the execution, whether Garp is up there on the execution platform with Roger as in the live action or not. Maybe Dragon has to endure this without having gotten any closure with a man who had once claimed him as a son. And Rayleigh isn’t there to offer comfort or platitudes. Shanks and Buggy are too caught up in their own emotions to spare any thoughts on the feelings of a guy who occasionally looked after them.

I don’t know if it’s a spoiler to you, but we do know that Crocodile was for sure at the execution in the manga/ anime. So at least Dragon wouldn’t be entirely alone. I don’t know exactly which of my AUs the Baby on Board comics apply to (most of them?) but in some of the AUs this would certainly be a moment where Dragon and Crocodile meet/ see each other again/ enjoy a night together, toasting to the old era and welcoming a new one in their own way ;3

So if Dragon wants to drink his complicated feelings away, there’s someone there to do it with, even though I doubt he’d tell Crocodile that he knew the man who died today as more than just the King of Pirates.

And yes, of course I also like the idea of just how the Baby on Board concept would weave the threads of these people even closer together.

[onepiece-polls]

One Piece Crack Ship War - Submission post!

Welcome to the One Piece Ship War - crack edition!

What is a crack ship?

A crack ship is a (in this case romantic/sexual) ship that has little to no basis in canon.

When will my ship qualify for this tournament?

They will automatically qualify (after having been submitted) when:

The characters involved have NO canon interaction*, and are not part of the same crew (no matter how popular the ship is).

The characters involved have 1 short canon interaction and less than 10 fics for them on AO3 (as a side pairing counts too)

They might qualify if:**

They have no canon interaction but are part of the same crew or organisation.

They have 1 short canon interaction but more than 10 fics on AO3

They have 1 long canon interactions or 2/3 short ones and less than 10 fics on AO3

They have multiple canon interactions but NO fics on AO3

It's an incredibly funny ship (but you gotta convince me it's crack!)

These ships will not qualify on principal:

ANY ship between Strawhats (honorary Strawhats don't count if they haven't met a certain Strawhat - examples: BrookNami does not qualify, SanjiVivi does not qualify, but BrookVivi would qualify)

The top 25 ships (or something, be sensible) on AO3.

*canon interactions include fillers, cover stories, specials, and movies (though I haven't seen the last 2 yet and I don't remember much of the other ones, so these might slip through, but I'm counting on you to honor this rule). Also, I won't know nor check interactions in the manga (that haven't been animated yet), so something might slip through there as well. Just honor the rules, please.

**Any ships in the 'might qualify' category will be judged on crackyness by me first, and when I'm in doubt, I will put them up for a vote - so expect a few polls for this.

Rules!

All characters must be from One Piece (no OCs).

Must be a crack ship according to above guidelines.

Ships that were in the previous shipping war tournament are allowed in this one too, as long as they follow the previous rule.

No moral limitations. These are fictional characters, not real people. Go wild. (But be prepared for 'problematic' ships to be voted out in round 1 or 2.) I will not start discourse/moral discussions about any ships! (messages about morally questionable ship are likely to be ignored and deleted)

Poly ships are allowed! I will cap them at 5 characters, however, and at least 1 character should follow the interaction rules stated above. (examples: JinbeRobinBrook or KidLawLu are not allowed. RobinNamiKiller would be allowed, on grounds of Killer having no interactions with the other 2 (I think? 😂)) Again, be sensible here.

All characters involved have to be humanoid. No concepts, objects, or full animals (fishmen/merfolk, minks, and Chopper are allowed).

You can submit multiple ships, but use a new form for each ship.

Do not hate on other ships, just support your own.

You are allowed and encouraged to submit fanart! As a lot of these ship won't have official art with all characters in it, it will come down to fanart for the most of it ((bad) edits are also very much allowed). However, it needs to be your own or you need permission from the artist before submitting it! However, if you haven't gotten permission yet when submitting, you can always send me a link to the fanart later. Without picture submitted, there might be a chance your ship will have to compete without a picture.

Keep the main images SFW and spoiler free. Propaganda can contain nsfw stuff and manga spoilers, as long as it's announced up front (eg: [Spoilers ahead]/[nsfw ahead])

Submit only through the google form below. Submisions through asks or reblogs will not be accepted.

Read the rules? Go ahead and submit those ships! (<you can click on that)

Oh yeah, and in case you're wondering... All submitted ships that pass the crack ship bar will make it into the tournament! No limitation on how many contestants there will be or how many submissions a ship needs. I want this to be an opportunity for all to discover new fun and silly ships!

Closing date is april 8 at 10AM CET.

[midnight-mourning]

1000 kudos/100 Follower Special!

wow so um, there’s a LOT of you now

👀👀👀

WHERE DID Y'ALL EVEN COME FROM LIKE?? HI!! 👋👋👋

AND ALSO

THIS???? CRAZY, incredibly appreciated <3 but also wild

anyway, I think that deserves celebrating! So, here’s a couple ideas I came up with for y’all to vote on, with the option of sharing other ideas in the comments, I’ll do the top two and save the others for the next milestone :)

If the 'other' option gets the most/second most votes, I'll do another poll with ideas that people suggested and we'll go from there. You can scroll down and click the read more if you'd like more info on each option! SO, having said all that:

Letting you guys make the call with this one! I have stuff prepped for all of it, just a matter of people voting since this is ME showing my appreciation to YOU. And again, next milestone will have the opportunity for the other choices :)

Also, this isn't just for followers/the moots either! Anyone is welcome to vote and participate if they'd like to 💙💙

Please also feel free to ask questions in the comments if that helps you with voting! Can't wait to see what you guys pick :D

I will expand on each option here for clarity in your decision making:

CS one-shot: I will write a one-shot (3,000-5,000 words prob) based in the CS universe. It will be canon to the fic but will never be mentioned/referenced in the fic itself so stand alone to read. It may be a future scene, may be based somewhere in the current timeline. Open to ideas on the POV and such (though I have some floating around that I can do ;))

Q&A/Ask the Cast: a classic, I know my ask box is open but here's also a clear chance to ask something that you've been really curious about! I won't share spoilers for the story, but everything else is on the table, including stuff about me, writing etc. Just no super personal questions is all! Additionally, you can ask the cast questions and answers will be in character, perhaps with a little doodle as well ^-^

Finished refs/busts for the cast of CS: I'll post the finished versions of the rough sketches I shared a few months ago, along with the remainder of the cast! This includes the rest of the engineering team, the division heads, the glamrocks, and the DCA! I also will include little blurbs for all the characters as well. This will probably happen eventually anyway BUT if you want them sooner rather than later this is you're chance if you're curious :)

Spooky Season one-shot: something halloween-related that again I'm open to ideas for! Would also be about 3,000-5,000 words in length, could be related to CS or not

Writing Requests: similar to the requests I did for reveal day, same rules apply (no nsfw, suggestive is fine, be specific if you want specific) but a little longer in length (500-1000 words)

Doodle requests: I provide you with a little drawing I made with tender love and care (would be lined, colored, shaded, etc.)

A peek into the drafts: I do in fact have a couple other fic ideas floating around in my brain that I simply haven't started so that I don't get bogged down/focus on CS. I would share those and a little bit of concept art

Other: explained above

[fifi-afterhours]

Telephones and Their Possible Connection with the Audience

So some time ago l was scrolling through @/partycoffin’s blog as one does when you fall into the fandom hole of welcome home, and I wanted to do a little speculation post about telephones and this picture:

Or more specifically, Eddie's and Howdy's ones, and their different rotary dialers.

[Supposed tiny post turned into long theory ramble below cut!]

(I have checked that this was made on 4 December, 2022, so I think this could be speculated on!)

As we can see, not only are the phone types different (with theirs presumably being portable), the numbers used for dialing are replaced with colours instead. Now, a simple explanation could be made that the colours simply replace the numbers, but that's not the case:

(I know they're not buttons, but let's just use that as a placeholder name for now-)

Neither of them seems to match with the 10 buttons needed for a a normal rotary dial, so the only explanation I could think of is that each colour corresponds with a neighbor.

@softestvine made a post about this before, and if you take a look at the guestbook signatures, the missing purple button on Eddie's phone makes sense since purple should represent him, and therefore his phone number in a sense.

The real question is why would Howdy have his own phone number. Maybe an extra set of hands means he owns two phones? Or maybe it's normal to have your own contacts to ring yourself up, and Eddie is actually the odd one out? For that I'm not sure.

Continuing on, there's also the curious addition of a black button, which doesn't seem to connect to any neighbor at all. My first thought was that it could be related to Home, but considering that it communicates through onomatopoeia that even Wally couldn't understand sometimes, I feel like it's doubtful that it's meant to be for Home. (though I'm not saying that it's impossible, just unlikely for now).

Which leads to the second theory: it's to represent us, the audience, the viewers of the show. My speculation is that there was a segment on the show that would involve the characters calling or receiving a phone call from a fan of the show, similar to how irl children shows that includes audience participation will show off fanworks in their episodes. (the closest example I could think of is Blue's Clues right now since my sister used to watch that).

Admittedly this feels like a stretch, but phones seem to be important to the show in some manner. In some old posts, we have audio of what prank calls to some of the characters are like, and although they're definitely not relevant to the work now, it's interesting to note that the concept of a way to communicate with the puppets exists.

Another thing is that on one of the secret pages of the website, you're sent to this page:

An error page that shows altered text and a phone gif instead of the one with Home. Perhaps I am looking too much into this, but compared to the other hidden links, why would this one take us to an error page first, albeit a different one?

Some people have pointed it out here that if you inspect the phone gif, it says "It's for you". When you click on it, you're taken to a page called 'duet' where Wally is singing to Home.

Don't you think it's coincidental that the only page with an audio file was only found through a phone? And why is the page called 'duet' when Home only responds after Wally finished his song? That's because the duet isn't sung by Wally and Home, it's supposed to be sung by Wally and you. By clicking on the phone, you're answering Wally's call, hence the "It's for you" file name.

My conclusion is that the phones were used to talk to the audience back when the show is running, and now Wally is using them to try to reach out to us.

[menthum-mint]

SORRY TUMBLR PEOPLE

I HAVE BROUGHT GOODS

FEED

FOR YOU HAVE A FEAST NOW

I think

Okay but in all seriousness, i have completed two references and also made more concept designs for some others, heh-

So for now, we look to the references, because up first. The man himself.

Tatiana Darling? Wally Qwartz? Idk. But I can say thay he is hot stu-[BOOING CHORUS]

Up next, Neon Frank and his bot boys!

I will say that the bots do likely have 'human' forms, but I didn't feel too bothered at the time to worry about it, besides, Frank's in the spotlight, who really cares? (Some may and I'm looking at you with understanding eyes)

And now, for the last finished piece I have

Sweethearts, the both of them🥺🥺

Oh how sweet they always are with one another

(Frank threatens to launch himseld into space to follow after Eddie when the protagonist launch him into space... And speaking of the protagonists.. Let's just say [the] (Vinyl) Neighborhood isn't quite the same without You ;) wink wink)

And now for a few concepts!

DJ Howdy Pillar! Just a local radio show host looking to get local bands' voices heard even if they're all starting out small!

Since there is no actual shop in game, and the fact DJ Zam is an actually pretty prominent NPC (plus funny canon voice for Howdy), who else but Howdy for Zam's place? Welcome to Howdy MD people! :)

Now?

Let me just say that B.B. Beagle and Tatiana Darling (still dunno) are still very much good friends, even despite the large age gap. To Wally, it feels like.. It feels like he knows Barnaby, but on a deeper level, like they were old friends somehow, and they were reunited.. His jokes make him laugh as if the man knew exactly what made him tick.

Weird...

Though, dogs are trult man's best friend

And one more design (which is definitely very subject to change [to make look softer and more accurate to a youngling])

Poppy!

Now, I still have yet to truly figure out what is going on, but I will say Poppy is definitely very much the youngest in this AU, and unlike in most other places, she is not the mother figure, she is loved ever so gently by the rest (shown by the way Frank loathes your name for having destroyed her piano. The way it tears are the heart strings of onlookers to see her precious instrument shatter, the shards scattered wildly upon the floor of the stage.

How cruel of you. She's only 9..

Bonus obligatory Howdy Bean based off of Cofi's lil beans🥺🥺 I had to, it was legally required by law or else I'd be sniped on sight

But anyhow, I suppose this concludes the update. I'm not entirely sure if I can even explain more or if I even have more of an idea to explain, but if there are any questions, by all means send in an Ask and I'll try to answer them all without giving too much away until I can truly get things going. ;)))

See you :0!

And sorry again for no update in forever.😭😭😭

[vivi-the-goblin]

Campaign idea I've LONG had but would require a fair bit of setup: time loop adventure. The party is having dinner at the tavern, when a rumbling rocks the foundations of the earth. Everything explodes in a wave color, sound, and immense pressure, but it parts around them the crest of a wave to a ship's bow. That bow being a small imp-like creature, screeching with the effort to maintain whatever shield is keeping the wave at bay. As quickly as it began, it ends, the world outside the bubble going greyscale. "Noble heroes," the creature pants, slowly turning. "The world hangs a second from death, I'm afraid I have to break my oath and call upon you once...Who the fuck are you!?" It collapses to its knees as it sees its intended targets, one table over. Epic heroes with legendary kit. Despite trying to maintain a low profile the party might even recognize them, or at least the gear spilling out of their robes. Most seem to be shrinking into their armor, though the gnome's just turning green. The whole bar is doing the same, come to think of it. "HOW. HOW DID I MISS. I- ok, ok. I can work with this. That's fine. they used to be chumps too, we just had more time to work back then. Hi. Welcome to the end of the world. If you want to roll it back, we can talk." The paladin's all for it. The rest of the party is conflicted, but they eventually decide they've got nothing else to do. First thing though, who is this? "Got a lot of names, been around for a while. Maintain time, maybe you've seen my work? Yeah, not gonna have it undone by a punk with a wish. One that wished for more wish granting items, and again with with all of those, until eventually they had enough for thier whole tribe of hundreds. and the tribe had one wish, a wish with enough power to bind even the gods." "They wished for 'Goblin'. And with neither the world or the goblins themselves having any idea what that's supposed to mean, creation answered with 'Yes.' There's not a thing under the sun that's not becoming goblin. Or over the sun. The sun's not outta the question eith- look, it's everything, ok? I don't know the reach, I don't want to either, I just know we can't stop that blast." The party grumbles. how do they save things if the gods themselves are bound? "I can chuck you back in time. Only about a day, I had to snap most of myself off when the corruption started. We can do this for a while, but we have to do this. Find out where they are. Figure out how to get to them. and somehow stop them. Can't be that hard, right? they're just goblins, right?" One way to find out. Basically this would start out consequence free. The world is set up, and full of FAR stronger creatures...at first. If they die they lose thier gear, but NOT thier info, the day just resets. Milestone experience, the players will slowly level up as they discover things. Discover how to get what they need more efficiently, skip parts, etc. I said 'at first.' Once they've gotten far enough, gotten their bearings, etc...they notice something's slightly different. Someone's slightly greener and nobody notices. A butterfly is a little goblin with goblin-patterned wings. something slightly changes in thier loop. next loop the little time gremlin's got a green ear. maybe they notice the bubble's slightly smaller. You've learned how things work, now execute. Whether you progress toward a failstate by amount of deaths/loops, or just give the illusion by going off progress, the pressure ramps up. The dragon they have to convince? goblin dragon. The city? slowly becoming goblins. Wild magic starts effecting party members, as even the concepts of reality start becoming goblin, under a sun that's starting to tint green. The bright side is you could do a bunch of the prep right at the start, and have far less to do as things progress. That's also the downside however, and the reason I haven't done it yet.