#answer is usually no btw

[fadeintoyou1993]

"as an american im also sorry-" no one cares

[drac0line1nn1t]

Do you think Logan would kill people for Wade?

Despite Wade being able to fend for himself?

Oh absolutely, not only is he not used to being around other people who can't get hurt, but violence is his love language

If someone was being rude to wade like for example making fun of his skin, that guy would not be found again

And if anyone hurts wade, even though it won't last a second, if wade doesn't take em out, Logan will one hundred percent fuck em up

The only one who gets to hurt wade is him

[doveywovy]

:( its sad nobody does aus where izuna comes around on the concept of the village and then madara still eventually leaves it and izuna stays behind. like izuna is famously stubborn so i think if you've written him as actually being convinced that Konoha is worth it, he'll stick it out to an insane degree. that includes staying even if madara leaves.

i could imagine him becoming the second hokage, partially out of people respecting his commitment to the cause after his brother abandoned it. honestly you could even get interesting with tobirama in this version of it because you have a lot of canon paths to go down with this. Izuna picking Konoha over Madara would firmly place him in the same mental space as Itachi or Kagami to Tobirama ("he chose the village over X and thus is a wonderful shinobi who i respect") leading to an overly respectful tobirama, which would completely alter his legacy. like you as the reader might know hes kind of insane about the uchiha but the village would just see him dutifully supporting an uchiha hokage.

Alternatively Tobirama's deep seated issues with Izuna specifically could make it difficult for him to see Izuna in that way and he could have a total crash out, ruining his legacy (lol) and slotting him in the same historical space as madara, ironically.

OR third option, he's weird about Izuna but also cautiously supportive, so he's just like a really helpful assistant to him who happens to constantly be checking Izuna for signs of what he considers mental degradation. Izuna is either slowly poisoning him or slowly sowing political rumors about him, either way he's putting in the effort to keep tobirama weak enough (mentally/politically) that he can't do anything against him but is also still around to assist because he is a useful second. I think in this version Izuna would pick Kagami as his heir, both because Kagami is the best trained for it and because Izuna would ensure power remains with the Uchiha, but also somewhat because Tobirama cannot argue against it (Thats HIS student) but wouldn't have picked him first out of all his students (As we know canonically).

this would mean during canon when all the hokage are brought back tobirama isn't and Izuna is, which would do a lot to the plot but this post is long enough so im leaving it there. immovable force vs unstoppable object izuna vs madara essentially

[blindmagdalena]

how do you think homie would react to reader breaking up with him because they have very different morals (homie kills people, ik he's babygirl but he does just brutally kill people, reader is a pacifist)

-bree(sorry for multiple asks in short time :P)

cw gaslighting, imprisonment, manhandling. no more mr. nice homelander.

"Fine, listen, listen, if it means that much to you, I won't do it anymore," Homelander says, hands lifted placatingly. The way he says it makes it sound like he's doing you a favor. Like you're overreacting to a mild infraction. You stare, mouth agape. "This... This isn't some bad habit. You kill people."

"Yeah," he agrees, a slight strain creeping into his voice. "Yeah! Okay. And? Lots of people kill people. And typically, I only kill people who're also killing people." "Typically," you echo, at a loss. How can he be so flippant about this? It's like he hasn't heard a single word you've said. "You don't care. At all." "Why should I care? Why should you care? It's not like I'm killing people you like, or even know," he says, his exasperation with you intensifying. "But you love me. So just... Cool off, alright? Sleep on it. Before you do something you'll regret."

The shift in his voice when he says that runs a chill up your spine. "Are you threatening me?" "What?" Homelander laughs. "No! Of course not. Babe, listen to yourself. C'mon, I know you're upset-" he moves to take your hand, but for the first time, you yank it from his reach, crossing your arms. His hand hovers in the space yours had been for a moment, his eyes locked on the same spot. He inhales a slow breath, his fingers curling into a fist before dropping back to his side.

When he looks at you, his gaze is bereft of any playfulness. Your denial of him has flipped a switch in him that you've never seen before.

"You're tired," he says, voice set low. Any traces of the lighthearted pretense from earlier has been dropped. "It's late. You have a lot to process. So, we are going to put this aside for tonight. You are going to come to bed with me, and we'll talk about it in the morning, when you're calm." "I am calm," you tell him, refusing to let him make you feel like you're the one being unreasonable. "Please move. I already told my friend I'm on my way," you lie. You wish you had. You wish you realized sooner you would need to. Homelander had always been so utterly devoted to you. He hung on your every word, met your every whim, loved you so thoroughly that he made you feel like his entire world. Only now have you realized the dangers of that kind of love.

His mouth twitches. "Which friend?"

You begin to answer, wanting to give validity to your fiction, but an awful thought occurs to you. Would he hurt them? "It doesn't matter," You reply instead, clutching your overnight bag. "I need space, and I don't want you coming to me before I'm ready. Please, move," you say, voice wavering. He was making this so much more painful than it already was. You do love him, but he's making you feel like you barely even know him.

Homelander taps his hands on his thighs, considering you. After a prolonged silence, just before you open your mouth to speak again, he claps his hands together. "Alright. Sure," he says, stepping forward. You step backwards. "Door's right there." You're immediately relieved, but there's a nagging feeling in your gut. "Thank you," you say softly, adjusting your grip on your bag. "I'll call, okay?" Homelander offers a sideways nod, seeming... resigned. You feel the guilt of it weigh heavily, and for a split second, you question yourself, whether what you're doing is right or fair. You have to steel yourself before your resolve falters. You need time away from him to collect yourself, and figure out what to do about the man you, as it turns out, know very little about.

Just as you pass him, you feel a sudden grip on your arm, and in a flash you're spun around, stumbling back into the penthouse. You stare wide-eyed for a moment, turning back around. Poised exactly as he had been before, Homelander stands in front of the door, hands on his hips. His brows lift slightly. "Well?" Your heart is racing now. "What are you doing?"

"Go on," he says, ignoring your question. "Door's right there."

Anger rolls through you in a heated wave. "I'm not playing this game with you," you say, moving to shove more forcibly passed him this time, but once again he catches you with a hand on your wrist, spinning you around with such ease, you may as well weigh nothing at all. Yet again you stumble back into the penthouse, tears welling in your eyes as you round on him. "Stop it! Get out of my way!" "Door's wide open, babe. All you have to do is get to it, and you can leave," he says, voice perfectly relaxed, devoid of any passion or empathy.

With a frustrated cry, you hurl your bag at him, and full on sprint towards the door. You get closer this time, but just as you reach for the knob, Homelander takes you by your shoulders and spins you right around. Your own momentum carries you further in. You barely catch yourself from falling, letting go a sob that's equal parts rage and heartbreak. Who is this man?

This time, you throw yourself bodily towards the door, screaming your distress, your anger. You do it again and again and again, and every time, Homelander spins you right back around. On the final attempt, as he once again redirects you, the force of your own momentum hurls you to the ground.

"Do you get it yet?" Homelander asks, cocking his head to the side, checking to see if you're picked up on this lesson in futility. "You don't call the shots here. You don't get to just decide we're done. Relationships go two ways, sweetheart," he says. That petname used to give you butterflies. It sounds sour on his tongue now. You hear him sigh, closer to you now.

"Didn't think you'd be that stubborn. But I guess I've always loved that about you when it wasn't pointed at me, huh?" He asks, a playful little lilt slipping back into his voice. You struggle when he scoops you up, you make an animalistic noise of pure aggravation, but it's as fruitless as ever. Homelander is both an unstoppable force and an immovable object, his grip on you like steel. He cannot be stopped, or even hindered, as he carries you towards the bedroom. He sets you down on the bed, and out of pure unthinking fury, you raise your hand to slap him across the face. The strike lands, but Homelander doesn't so much as twitch. Your hand smarts, you may as well have slapped a brick wall. You clutch your wrist, letting go another sob. It aches immediately, frail in comparison to his unyielding frame.

Cupping either side of your face, Homelander swipes away your tears with his thumbs, watching you impassively. There's patience in his expression, though it looks stretched thin.

"I know you're upset," he says, an echo of earlier, as if picking up right from where he'd left off. As if nothing of the last twenty minutes had even happened. "But we'll get through this. And hey, hey, I'm not even mad at you, okay? Because that's what it means when you love someone. You forgive them." You feel numbed by your own plethora of tumultuous emotions, strung out and exhausted. You close your eyes, unable to stomach the loving way he's gazing at you. He kisses your forehead, wringing a weak, hiccupped little noise out of you. "That's my girl. I love you more than anything. You know that, right? That I would never do anything to hurt you?" No matter how gentle his hold on you is, it's inescapable. You have no choice but to face him, bleary as he is through your tear-welled eyes. Unable to push an answer through the tightness in your throat, you just nod.

"That's right. Of course you do. Because if I wanted to hurt you, I would have. It would have been easy, huh?" Those words break something in you. You lose whatever bit of composure you had built back up, and you begin to sob anew, an agonized sound. Homelander's expression twists. He's never liked seeing you cry. He's also never been the source of it.

"Shhh, shhhh, hey, it's alright. You're okay. I would never let anything happen to you," he says, as if he wasn't the very thing happening to you in this moment. He kisses your forehead again, your tear-streaked cheeks, and finally your lips.

You don't have any fight left in you. Not against the press of his lips, and not against the way he brings you under the covers with him, clothes and all.

He pulls you against his chest the same way he has a hundred times before, as if this is any other night that the two of you have fallen asleep in each others embrace.

You hug your arms tight to your chest, crying hard, while he rubs your back, hushing you. Comforting you, as any good boyfriend should.

"It's alright. I've got you," he says, his arms an oppressive force around you. "I've got you."

[chiquilines]

Damn so everyone was as starved for miryumi content as i was? Have another treat

[skunkes]

I might be stupid but is Al, Smunker, and Talon togetherrrr. Like a polycule or are they having a secret 3rd thing? Sorry if the answer is obvious jdjdj

theyre together! au (?) for cheye's survival

(general info doodle i made a few months ago) (i say au but idk it could become permanent in my daydream zone, Talon is meant to have his own canon but I like him too much and am bad at writing plots)

This is still a fairly recent development so the current needed-SOME-foundation lore is:

talon and al were as together as talon would allow at the time (so not really) but he liked Al most even amidst his anxieties about men. He leaves for a long while with no contact once he realizes he's getting toooooo comfortable with al, comes back for another round of comfort and gets attached again to both the guy he knew AND the guy's boyfriend

I dont think Talon actually likes being referred to as boyfriend by either of them, nor would he refer to them as his boyfriends, but the attachment and "role" is still there and that's what they loosely consider him (i have to explore this further, theres still a lot i dont know abt him) while also knowing he could just decide to leave again if he so wishes

[franeridart]

Is there like a character page linked somewhere about ur comic? i am already forgetting names T_T

The closest thing is the character sheets I posted on my patreon (and that was a while back so Nico’s wasn’t there), but here’s my patreon header with names for you !!

the two in the top right will show up….. at some point wwww Dave’s boss isn’t here but she's called Alba!

[valyrfia]

i have an informative covid post that's currently going mildly viral or at the very least has left my sphere of influence and i'm just thinking of a poor soul that thinks "huh, she sounds reasonable i'll follow her" only to open my blog and be hit in the face with my takes on which f1 drivers are having the most rancid sex with each other

[fryday]

tbh a launch doesn't get harder than "we bought a house together" you literally don't need to say more than that

yep. "we bought a house together, spent 4/5 years meticulously designing the whole thing so it was perfect for us, as two gay men who've lived together forever, one of whom is already in his late 30s" etc etc etc etc

[normal-person-i-promise]

slurred teases and sweet kisses

arataka reigen/female reader

tw for drinking, bars, intoxication

You roll your eyes as he takes another sip of his drink, his mouth set in smug grin as he swirls the liquid in his glass and watches as the ice clinks against the walls of his cup. With each sip he takes, his face gets more flushed, his words get more slurred.

Arataka has an embarrassingly low tolerance to alcohol, and you're witnessing it firsthand. He's feeling it too; that urge to kiss you is a lot stronger than usual...

★ ★ ★

...Should he invite you? You're just his employee after all, and the both of you would be alone in the bar...

Arataka glances at you for a moment, looking up from the newspaper he was reading at his desk. He's not actually reading it, of course — he can barely concentrate on breathing when you're in the room with him. You're just so... Distracting, he can't help it.

The slow rise and fall of your chest, the motion of your hand as you tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear, the way your eyes would flit between him and the window — Arataka could watch you for hours and not grow bored.

If Arataka invites you to just... Go to that bar he used to be a usual at, then the two of you would be alone. Like a date, which it— it isn't, of course— that would be crazy! There's no way you'd want to date Arataka, of all people, it just doesn't make sense for you to like him!

You think of him as an employer, a friend, maybe a close one, but just that! Nothing more, nothing less!

Arataka exhales sharply through his nose, flipping the page to look like he's reading the paper. He can feel the grain of the grey newspaper between his fingertips as he rubs his finger absentmindedly on the edge, pick up that faint scent of printed paper in the air.

You risk a glance at him, and your eyes shimmer with the evening sun's light as you study his features: his disinterested gaze, his relaxed posture, his incurious expression. He's... Mesmering to look at in this state, this boredom, especially since he's so expressive usually.

He also looks rather attractive, but that doesn't really matter.

You can see him stiffen, trying to ignore how hot he feels with your eyes roaming all over his body, but... Not that he doesn't enjoy it, of course — Arataka adores when you study him, just like how he studies you. You've noticed a lot of things about him by now; the way he'd adjust his grip on the newspaper, the way his eyes skim over the text, the way he leans back in his chair, his posture relaxed; bored.

You quickly avert your gaze, and Arataka feels a pang of sadness at the loss of your attention.

You, yourself, are not doing much. You're just... Sitting quietly at the little couch in the corner of the room, waiting patiently for the customers to come in. You're staring out the window, watching as the pedestrians on the streets walk along back to their homes or to the restaurants and bars, watching the way the trees sway in the light breeze, some of their vibrant green leaves falling off the sharp brown branches.

It's your job, after all — the job Arataka is paying you for — to be whatever customer service is needed when he's too busy exorcising the client's spirits or helping talk through their worries.

You take a slow, deep breath, inhaling that familiar scent of salt and incense, of sweat and cologne.

Arataka doesn't need you, not really. He just wants an excuse to see your face day after day after day, hear your darling little voice call his name when you need help.

He likes it most during that little frame of time when Mob has left to go back home, but you're still in the office — alone — with him, simply coexisting in eachother's presence. This is the time that he'd talk to you, joke with you, spend time with you — but just because he enjoys talking to you for every second of the day you're with him doesn't mean that he isn't content in settling into a comfortable silence with you. He likes... Coexisting with you, whether you're on your phone or looking out the window, whether he's reading the newspaper or watching the little TV in the corner of the room.

It's... Nice, in a way, to have someone care about you just as much as you care about him.

"The sky's pretty nice, isn't it?" You say to Arataka, tapping on the glass with your finger and bringing his attention to it.

It is rather pretty; golds and oranges are strewn across the sky like an artist's first experimental brush strokes on their canvas, the colours shifting with every minute that passes as the sun goes lower and lower on the horizon. The clouds are rimmed gold — a delicate, thin outline to show its form, shimmering and soft as the light bounces off it.

It's not sunset yet, no, but — oh, how that golden light spills into the room, how it makes Arataka's eyes sparkle—

"Yeah, it is pretty."

His words are simple, but it's evident that he's fighting himself to keep his tone disinterested. He doesn't want to show interest in you: he'd look like a fool. He doesn't want to look like a fool in front of the girl he likes.

You clear your throat (you always do that when you need to distract yourself from your thoughts, Arataka's noted), and you settle back in your seat. He grins, an opportunity to tease you coming to his mind, the words already beginning to brew.

"You what looks nicer, though?" He asks, his tone playful as he looks you up and down, feeling pleasant shivers run down your spine. It feels so... Good, to be the object of his attention, to be the subject of his praise.

"What?" You ask, crossing your legs as you lean back in your chair. You're grinning pridefully, knowing that he'll most definitely say you're prettier.

Arataka's thin smile widens noticeably, his eyes narrowing in delight.

"Me, of course."

You roll your eyes, though it's clear you mean nothing malicious by it. "Oh, please, Arataka," you say, your tone teasing, "you're full of yourself. You're a lot uglier than the sky."

A lie. To set off any suspicions that you like him.

He just grins wider, settling into his seat like a proud king.

Even though it's nothing more than light, playful banter, every second Arataka spends with you feels like a moment in heaven — your voice the angel's songs, your hair their shining halos. You never refuse any of his silly little jokes, always laugh at those half-wit puns he makes, and it... It sends waves of butterflies to his stomach, knowing that you enjoy being around him, knowing that you like being his friend.

And vice versa — every second you spend with Arataka is such fun, such enjoyment, that you lose track of time and go back home hours later than intended. He's just so... Fun to talk to, what with his witty replies and clever jokes, his carefully placed puns and playfully sharp remarks. He's such a joker, always able to make you laugh, and he likes it. He likes hearing your laugh. He likes it a lot.

The newspaper crinkles loudly as Arataka folds it, placing it on the desk. Struggling to keep his expression neutral and his voice level, he asks you a simple question.

"Wanna go out for drinks later?" Grinning, now, "I'll pay."

Please say yes. Please, please say yes.

You hum in thought as if you don't know your answer already. Your voice is light; playful, and Arataka can hear the grin plastered on your face when you reply.

"I don't know... I don't drink."

You don't, that bit is true: you've tried, and failed, to enjoy alcohol and intoxication. It's just so... Sour, and overwhelming, and it feels so horrible the next day.

Arataka lets out an exasperated groan, but the both of you know it's fake.

"Come on— please?"

He leans on the desk, his whole upper body resting on the wood, trying to get as close to you as he can to you without getting up. His eyes almost seem to sparkle as he smiles wide, trying as hard as he can to convince you, knowing you can't say no to that god forsaken smile. "Pretty please? It's my birthday!"

He's almost pleading as he tilts his head innocently, his cheeks resting comfortably in his hands, his elbows planted on the desk. "You don't wanna upset the birthday boy, do you?"

You sigh, though you aren't annoyed. You can't say no, the both of you know that — especially since it's his birthday. And, unbeknownst to you, it's the first birthday Arataka will be spending with a friend in a long, long time. He's ecstatic, Especially since it's you.

Even if it's just one friend, and even if that friend is a girl he really likes is his employee, it's still counted, right?

You... Are a friend, right?

Because the way your pretty little lips would curl into a grin whenever you'd tease him, the way your words would cause him to erupt into fits of laughter, the way you always enjoyed the little games of banter the two of you often shared certainly made it seem so.

You roll your eyes at his display.

"Fine, fine, okay. I'll go celebrate your birthday with you or whatever."

Arataka has to hide his excitement, struggling to keep himself from smiling ear to ear, struggling to ignore how his heart flutters, struggling to ignore that familiar feeling of butterflies in his stomach.

He always feels this way when he's with you though, so he's gotten pretty good at ignoring it.

"When do you say we should go?"

Arataka tilts his head more heavily to the side as he asks you that question, his eyes roaming around the room as he thinks. You watch as he shifts in his chair, trying in vain to get comfortable in the god awful position he's sitting in.

His grin widens. "Now?"

Flitting your eyes to the clock and reading the time quickly, you answer him, your voice level; though there's a slight undertone — barely even there — of a playful, almost accusational chide. You're just buying time to annoy him, giving him pointless excuses.

"It's still ten minutes to closing."

Arataka sighs in dramatised exasperation, putting such an emphasis on the rolling of his eyes that it makes you scoff in playful annoyance. It makes his heart flutter, knowing that you're entertained by him. God, how he loves that voice of yours... How he loves you...

Spinning his hand so fast that it's a blur, he stops abruptly, pointing to himself as he grins proudly. "I'm the boss, here. I can close this place any time I want."

He gets his elbows off the desk, kicking his feet onto the wood as you hum in response to his words. Nodding as you speak, you agree with him. "Good point, good point."

Arataka and you clean up the office a little, sweeping the corners here and dusting the chair over there. The two of you are in a comfortable silence, content enough with the fact that you're in each other's presence.

As you clean, Arataka can't help but notice — he always notices — all those little things you do: the way you place one foot in front of the other to the beat of the song stuck in your head; the way you hum softly to yourself, quiet enough to think he can't hear; the way your eyes would catch glimpses of his every so often.

More often than not, he'd get lost in all your little habits. It's just... The minor ways you'd entertain yourself as you clean, the manner in which you would tuck your hair behind your ear, the way you'd roll your sleeves up before doing anything, is so... Cute, you're so cute...

It's not long before the place is as good as new, and Arataka is switching the lights off and taking the keys to the door.

"After you, m'lady," he says in an unnecessarily posh voice, bowing slightly as he opens the door for you. You nod, thanking him as you step out, bathed the hot summer night air — it's humid, the air thick with moisture as you breathe in the scent of moist pavement and soaked leaves from the rain that had happened a few hours earlier.

The more you walk, the more you can hear the bustling of the shopkeepers in their kitchens and behind their counters, pick up the buzz of the neon signs just beginning to flicker on, listen to the indistinct chatter of the night life starting to settle into the bars and night clubs. Though it's faint, it's most definitely there, and it's getting louder and louder with each minute that passes.

The walk to the bar isn't quiet; it's never quiet when the two of you walk together. The air is always filled with friendly conversation, laughter and giggles peppered in here and there, occasional glimpses at his soft, pink lips...

Arataka is taking in every little thing about you, from the way your smile would form to the tapping of your shoes on the pavement. You're... Perfect, you.

He tries his best to match your pace, making sure that his footfalls are in tandem with yours, making sure that you both are walking as one.

If someone was looking on at the two of you, they'd think you were a couple.

A few minutes later, Arataka is pushing open the door of the Happy Trails bar, gesturing for you to enter. The floor is sticky, the air thick with the sharp smell of alcohol and sweaty office workers. The lights are dim; warm, inviting, as you take a seat after Arataka pulls one out for you.

"So what'll you have?" He asks, flashing you the most charming grin he can muster. He settles into his seat, getting more comfortable: unbuttoning his suit jacket, loosening that pink tie on his neck, undoing the top buttons of his immaculate white dress shirt. God, he's so hot—

It's hard to keep from staring, but you manage.

You shrug. "Just soda."

Arataka nods, not questioning it as he calls the bartender over and ordering for both you and him: an iced cola for you, and a lemon sour — extra sour — for him. He always orders that, and, based on the few times you've gone out drinking with him, you don't think he drinks anything else.

He settles into his seat, and you struggle to get your voice to pierce through the indistinct conversations of the other patrons.

"So, Arataka," you nearly shout, your tone playful, "how do you feel now that you're 28?"

He hums in thought, bringing a fist to his chin as he thinks about his answer.

He shrugs.

"So-so, but—" he pauses for dramatic effect, the shadow of a grin ghosting on his lips —"I'm feeling a whole lot better since you're here to help me into my old age."

You laugh slightly at his little joke. Arataka's dopey little grin widens with pride, having made you giggle yet again.

Your drinks arrive a little after this, and you can't help but notice the bartender giving you an accusational side eye as he slides the both of you your glasses, seeming to doubt the fact that you and Arataka aren't dating.

"Oh, come now, Arataka—" his heart flutters at the sound of your voice saying his name —"you're not that old." Your grin widens, your tone teasing. "You look a lot older, though."

He lets out an offended half laugh, shoving your shoulder playfully in mock offence. "How mean!" He cries, trying in vain to make his voice sound offended.

It's quiet as you sip your cola slowly, and you're not blind to the way Arataka's eyes follow your tongue as it darts out to get whatever droplets of your drink missed your mouth.

...God, how he wants to taste that sharp, teasing mouth of yours, feel every crevice and crease of your lips as they press into his... How he wants to run his hands through your soft hair as he combs it out of the way of your perfect face, how he wants whisper sweet nothings into your ear as you fall asleep in his arms...

"You should... Really watch that tongue of yours," he warns playfully, his words beginning to slur, fighting to ignore his thoughts. He's barely even had a sip of his drink, and he already looks like he's about to pass out.

He wags a wobbly finger in your face like a mother reprimanding her child. "I might get tired of you and fire you."

You roll your eyes, scoffing.

"Oh, Arataka," you tease, leaning in close — close enough to smell the scent of his expensive cologne, close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath, close enough to feel just how hot he is. He grits his teeth, struggling not to close the distance between the two of you as you speak lowly, quietly: for his ears only.

"We both know you like me too much."

And he— he blushes, oh, and he pushes you away with the tip of his unsteady finger to your forehead. You swallow the slight hurt you feel as Arataka replies, his response clumsy as always — more so now that he's drunk. "And we... Both know you like me too much to let yourself... Get fired."

You roll your eyes as he takes another sip of his drink, his mouth set in smug grin as he swirls the liquid in his glass and watches as the ice clinks against the walls of his cup. With each sip he takes, his face gets more flushed, his words get more slurred.

Arataka has an embarrassingly low tolerance to alcohol, and you're witnessing it firsthand. He's feeling it too; that urge to kiss you is a lot stronger than usual...

And though the motion is wobbly, unbalanced, now it's his turn to lean in close. He almost falls on you.

His grin is wide, and though it's lopsided from the alcohol, it still manages to be annoyingly smug, and... Wonderfully endearing, too, like he's trying to make you happy regardless of how his vision blurs and his head pounds. "I'm... Doing you a favour for not... Firing you, you know."

You scoff mockingly at his words, drinking your soda as you grin. "Please, Arataka"— another rush of butterflies to his stomach —"I know I'm far too important to you to just... Get rid of."

You're grinning smugly now, leaning in closer to his face. Your noses are almost touching, and you can almost taste his lips now — the sweetness of alcohol mixing with the sharp mint of his mouthwash, his saliva thick as Arataka swallows. You're not blind to how his unfocused eyes fall down to your mouth for a moment, licking his lips like he's looking at a freshly cooked meal, ready for devouring.

"Ah, but you need to... To remember," he says, leaning away from you, gripping the table in tight hands to stop himself from falling off his barstool. He squints as he talks, trying hard to form the words. "I could totally just do it right now. Nothing's... Stopping me."

You sigh, smiling, rolling your eyes but staying quiet.

Arataka downs the remainder of his drink in one swift gulp, slamming the cup down onto the wooden bar table with a loud thud.

He doesn't order another one, thankfully, because at the rate he's getting drunk, he's bound to pass out or vomit anytime soon. His cheeks are an almost bright red, his eyes half-lidded and glossed over, unfocused as he stares at you; when he breathes, you can smell the alcohol on his breath.

"Hey, Arataka."

You sip your soda, licking the glass a little to see how he reacts get the drops that missed your mouth. Arataka watches your tongue, almost hungrily so, his gaze unblinking and his breathing shallow.

You want to try and get as many secrets as you can get out of a drunk Arataka, just to have something to either a) tease him about, or b) blackmail him with.

"What do you think about me?" You ask, grinning.

Arataka shifts in his seat, thinking hard about his answer, and doing it for a suspiciously long time. A plan to avoid your question brews, half-finished in his mind.

He gives you a lopsided grin, leaning in with a shaky, unsteady motion, before abruptly jerking away and pressing his hands to his mouth as if he's trying to prevent himself from vomiting. As he hunches over on himself, your face immediately shifts to one of concern, your brows furrowing and your grin disappearing.

"...Arataka? You okay...?" You ask gently, rubbing his back. You've seen him vomit aggressively after taking so much as a sip of alcohol, and you're definitely preparing to wipe bile from the corners of his mouth.

It's quiet for a moment, save for the clinking of glass and the chatter of overlapping conversation.

"I... Eugh." He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grimacing as he feels his head pound — and that plan, that drunk one that sober Arataka would definitely not approve of, starts forming more clearly in his mind.

You grow more worried the more you watch, his movements shaky, his words all blending together. He thinks he's doing a pretty good job at looking like he's going to vomit — and since you're acting so worried about him, then he'd wager that his plan is working.

"Arataka, are you okay?" You ask again, your voice firmer, though still retaining that soft, quiet worry. You rub what you hope are soothing circles on his back, and you can see him visibly relax, letting out a long sigh.

"'M fine," he mumbles, swatting your hand away, his eyes struggling to open.

It's working, it's working! Keep going, Arataka!

Just as you're about to speak again, Arataka opens his mouth, faking a retch, and you panic. He falls — definitely not accidentally — straight into your lap, and it takes a moment to register that no vomit has come from his mouth before you hit him playfully on his forehead. His heart skips a beat when you don't push him off, merely just hitting him.

"Ow!" He exclaims, his grin crooked as he struggles to fake a grimace of pain, rubbing the spot you hit him.

"Even when you're drunk, you still manage to annoy me," you grumble, though the amused smile on your face gives away what you're feeling.

You ruffle his hair a little, tangling your fingers in between the delicate golden strands — and he lets out a sigh at your touch, closing his eyes in contentment. Your heart beats faster as you look at him: his flushed cheeks and content, closed eyes, his relaxed body resting in your lap — god, you have to fight yourself not to plant a kiss on his low, pointed nose.

Arataka pries open his eyes when you stop combing through his hair with your fingers.

"What... Can I say," he says slowly, looking at you with a gaze that can only be described as one of a lover's: sweet, tender, and affectionate. "I love... Seeing your smile."

Your heart flutters.

The two of you stay in this position for a while, a position a lot like a couples'. Neither of you complain — if anything, the both of you enjoy it — and it's not long before Arataka's eyes slowly shut, his breathing slowing as he starts to fall asleep in your lap.

You feel butterflies in your stomach when you gaze upon his calm expression: his eyes closed firmly shut, his kissable lips curved in a slight smile, his face relaxed.

The bar is almost empty now, save for three or four people having a conversation at one of the tables in the corner. You can pick up their mumbling: they're talking about the two of you, how Arataka didn't vomit yet, how he used to be a usual at this bar, how he never brought any girls with him until today, and what a surprise that he managed to pull such a pretty one.

"Happy birthday, Arataka," you say — and, smiling, you push those golden bangs out of the way with a hand and plant a firm, chaste kiss on his forehead. It's a kiss you've wanted to give him for a long time, but also one you're forced to keep short, just in case you're overstepping boundaries.

Arataka's eyes snap open and widen considerably, his face flushing even more than you thought was possible. He's speechless for a moment as he brings a shaky hand up to feel where your lips touched him, his heart beating a million times a minute, his breathing quick and shallow.

He just... Stares at you, starry eyed, for a minute, his mouth slightly agape.

He snaps back to reality.

"Again," he says impatiently, his tone demanding as he brings his hand down to rest, clasped with the other, in his lap. "As... The birthday boy, this is... Is my birthday gift from you. Kiss... Me, again."

You smile, letting out a slight chuckle at his slurred demand.

"You're sure you won't regret it tomorrow...?" You ask slowly, playfully, as you rake your fingers through his soft, blonde hair. You know he most definitely will.

Arataka shakes his head vigorously in your lap, though stops immediately when he starts to feel his head pound, wincing.

You just watch him for a moment, combing gentle fingers through his hair, smiling in amusement at his impatience. He whines when you don't do what he asked for yet, just staring at him, and he repeats his demand.

"Kiss me. Right... Here," he mumbles, tapping a shaky finger to his forehead.

You oblige, pressing a gentle kiss to his skin, pushing his bangs aside. He sighs, closing his eyes. And when you pull away, "Again," he says almost immediately.

You happily oblige, kissing him there once more.

He stops for a moment, breathing shakily, before getting up from your lap abruptly and wrapping his arms around you tightly. In the process of doing this, his unsteady movements cause the both of you to fall onto the bar stools beside you, so that Arataka is lying down comfortably on top of you; your noses almost touching, your lips just inches away from each other. He's so... Drunk, and so, so cute...

The bartender gives you a stern look, and you flash him an apologetic smile.

Arataka's eyes, half-lidded, fall down to your mouth, and he brings an unsteady hand to cradle your chin as he runs a shaky thumb over your bottom lip.

"...Can I...?" Arataka asks in a low, mumbly slur, his eyes unblinking as he stares at your lips.

You heart races as you nod, and it's barely a moment before he's pressing his lips tightly to yours, shifting and moving them until they're slotted comfortably against each other. His eyes flutter shut as he gets comfortable lying on top of you, getting more accustomed to the soft cloth of your clothes as he runs a hand down your side, getting more used to the soft strands of your hair that he's been itching to run his fingers through.

Arataka tastes... Sour, mostly from the drink he had a few moments ago. There's the faint, sharp tang of the alcohol, too; a sweet, distinct flavour, a rich undertone to the myriad of tastes you manage to sample as his lips shift against yours.

His lips are cracked, chapped, and dry, but you couldn't care less as he tangles a hand in your hair, the other holding your head in place as he tilts his own head to press his lips even more into yours. He grunts, seemingly not satisfied, and pushes his lips onto yours until the kiss is almost bruising.

Your face is flushed when you break the kiss. Though it's short, sweet, and chaste, it's clear that Arataka wants more. You both do.

Just as he's leaning in to kiss you again, the bartender taps your shoulder, glaring at you sharply and jabbing a thumb in the direction of the door. You blurt out a mumbled apology, scrambling to get up, Arataka nearly falling. As promised, he slips the bartender about one and a half times more money than owed.

You both wordlessly exit the bar, and as you walk, Arataka stumbles behind you. He's unsteady; his path is a winding zigzag in comparison to yours, struggling to keep to a straight line and nearly falling onto the road multiple times — and as a way to counter this, you wrap your arm securely around his waist. Arataka responds by leaning his weight onto you, and you both continue on without much issue or argument.

It's much later in the night now; the cars on the road are whizzing past the two of you, the shops all closed with their shutters pulled down over the windows.

The air is heavy with humidity, and you can feel Arataka's sweat from where he presses himself against you. Arataka himself smells of that familiar sharp, sour smell of sweat; the faint scent of salt; and that sweet, sweet cologne he wears. The fabric of the suit is soft as you grip him tightly, every step he takes making him sway more and more until it's clear he's going to either vomit or pass out.

A few moments later, he calls your name in a mumbly, shaky voice, before hurriedly pushing you off him as he staggers to the drain. Before you know what's going on, you're at his side as he vomits a sickly green bile.

You pat his back reassuringly, now only registering that he's vomiting.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Arataka grins at you, though his eyes are struggling to open and his smile is lopsided.

"We're staying... At your house, right?" He mumbles, though he stumbles slightly, and alarm flashes across his face as he swings his hands about to get balanced before he manages to stand straight again. He widens the skewed grin in his face, trying his absolute best to look charming, and failing. It's still adorable, though.

You snicker, nodding in response.

"Let's go, Arataka."

You slide your arm around his waist, and he leans nearly all his bodyweight on you as the two of you walk to your flat.

The walk is quiet as Arataka struggles not to vomit again, barely being able to stay awake to avoid falling unconscious in your arms — it would be a shame if you held him tenderly and he wasn't there to experience it. Nobody's on the streets, so it's just the two of you, save for a car that comes every so often.

The only sound you can hear is the steady tap, tap, tapping of your shoes on the pavement, followed by the much more unsteady beat of Arataka's shiny black dress shoes as he walks beside you.

Neither of you say anything when you walk, neither of you speak when you unlock your front door, neither of you argue when you lead him to your bedroom.

You set him down on the bed slowly, slipping off his grey coat and undoing his necktie. The whole time you're doing this, Arataka's just... Watching you. His eyes, fixed on you, are glassed over, unfocused — but full of so, so much love.

He doesn't say a word as he gets comfortable in your bed, and when he holds you in his arms, falling asleep, it's silent.

★ ★ ★

thanks for reading!!

second chapter !!

[necrotic-nephilim]

How do you think bruce would react to a Robin pile situation?

oooh this is a fun thought. i think it depends *entirely* if you're working with a morally stable Bruce or a Bruce who's a little fucked up and dead dove-ish. somehow, i think it's actually more fun if it's a completely stable Bruce bc that adds so much more drama and issues if Bruce is deeply unsettled by the idea. if it was maybe just Jason and Dick or Jason and Tim dating that's sort of understandable. Bruce knows that while he may see them all as his sons (except Steph bc do know Robin pile will *always* include Steph for me and tbh Cass too as an honorary member. they're all going in the pile.) but he understands that doesn't mean they see each other as brothers. he respects the nuanced and complicated relationships scattered across all of the Batfam.

but if all of them are *dating*? or at the very least sleeping together? that raises a lot of logistical red flags. the most obvious one is the age gap of it all- at the biggest gap you have Damian and Dick who are an easy fifteen years apart, meeting when Damian is a kid. not to mention how many of them have tried to kill each other at some point. it shouldn't work and Bruce doesn't like that it does. Bruce has a history of wanting to control the relationships of the Batkids when he disapproves. and so he'd absolutely try to break them up. at first, he paints it purely as a logistical issue. saying it's smartest not to bring feelings into work and that this is dangerous. i think it's especially fun if this happens at a time when Bruce doesn't approve of Steph or Jason so that *also* plays into it, he doesn't want either of them near the ones he currently considers to be his family. he says he wants to protect them and wants to keep them safe. he tries to appeal to who he thinks would be more logical and listen to him the most. first Dick, and then when that doesn't work, Tim. and when neither of them listen, i *do* think Bruce would stoop to the low of trying to break them up by fabricating internal conflict between them, hoping to divide and conquer the weird polycule it's become.

while i don't think Bruce would be jealous in the sense he wants to be included, i *do* think he's wildly dislike the Robins having this close bond that makes them trust each other implicitly more than they trust Bruce. they will defer to each other before him and clearly keep things from him. he'd despise that. it's an inner circle he's not let in on and it makes him lose aspects of control over some of them, especially Damian who's the youngest and his son, who Bruce deserves the most control over. he would drive himself mad about it. at first for genuine reasons over the perceived fucked up nature of the relationship (even when each of them have confirmed that it is entirely consensual and they're happy) and to protect them. but he becomes so bitter over being ignored. they openly prioritize each other over him when the truth comes out because they see no point in hiding it. and i could definitely see Jason gloating about how he's back in the family whether Bruce likes it or not. Bruce would be beyond pissed about it. he's just never recovering. trying to stop them gets nowhere, even if he manages to cause some internal conflict.

eventually, Bruce would be forced to accept it for fear he would lose all of them. but he's *not* going to be happy about it and he keeps making side comments, hoping to get through to one of them eventually. it doesn't work, but he's definitely not going to stop trying. i also think on some level it would just disgust him a little bit in a visceral way, since they're his kids to him and he doesn't like to picture them in that way. esp when Jason or Steph lean heavily into PDA just to fuck with him. ass grabs, cuddling, sloppy kisses, the whole nine yards. Bruce will not have a moment of peace.

[linkito]

So about that hhau Before the Horrors brainstorming you were talking about 👀 can I convince you to share some thoughts? :3 How silly were they before they got dropped into the bads?

-🎀

oh my gosh sOOO It started with me coming up with some past relationship stuff for Scar! Because ange and I have agreed that Scar has relationship experience, while Grian, pointedly, does not. (because extra drama for the situation on Hermitcraft! Grian doesn’t know if his understanding of love is skewed and wrong!) (spoilers: it’s not)

I thought it would be funny if Scar once got a guy’s number and later on got a booty call but did not...realize it was a booty call. The guy messaged him “I’m lonely...come keep me company?<3” and Scar immediately thought oh no!! he must need comfort and homemade cookies!

He’s halfway out the door when Cub tells him to have fun on his hook-up and Scar scoffs like “It’s not like that, Cub, my god!” 

... it was indeed like that.

And listen. The guy is nice enough but he sort of just expected the hot guy he met on mcci to come over and kiss him senseless and now he’s...in his kitchen. baking. and it’s very endearing but!!! oh my god.

So he calls his friend on his comm, hushed in his room like “I can’t kick him out, he’s baking!” meanwhile she’s laughing and mocking him for somehow finding a problem in a cute guy making cookies for him like hello? huge win? She jokes to give him HER number, but ultimately tells her friend to just let him down easy.

Well, unfortunately for them... vex hearing. Scar overhears the whole thing and hoooo boy is he embarrassed now. When the guy comes out of his room, Scar is already packing up, saying something came up, sorry!

But he can’t help but throw in a “...you can give your friend my number” as he leaves just to have a mic drop moment pfffff-

ANYWAY what does this have to do with Grian and Scar being idiots???

Well back in Boatem, Scar gets an incREDIBLY similar message from Grian one night: I’m lonely. Come over?

And Scar is rushing to get his shoes on when he has to stop and think: oh god is this a booty call?

Surely not. No, no, Grian and him are just friends! But like...what if it is? What if he embarrasses himself again? 

Ultimately he decides it would be even MORE embarrassing to assume it is and be wrong than it would be to show up ready to comfort again.

So he heads over. And Grian answers the door in his pajamas: a short-sleeved button up (Grian normally wears long sleeves and oh my gosh the freckles are on his arms too) and most importantly: just the shortest little pajama shorts.

Scar about short-circuits. (pun intended)

Now here’s the thing. It wasn’t a booty call. And despite his flusterment, Scar still doesn’t assume it to be! He is a perfect gentleman! He eventually invites Grian over to his place (it’s bigger and cozier) so he can make cookies! And he gives Grian his overcoat as they walk over since it’s a little chilly.

And listen. The sight of Grian all dressed down like this? with Scar’s jacket on? with Jellie curled up in his lap? sitting in his kitchen while Scar bakes and rambles about nothing and everything?

Scar is down so bad. So darn smitten.

Also they absolutely fall asleep cuddled up together on Scar’s bed. But you know. 

Toooooootally just friends.

[whimsicalcotton]

Please.......please spare some amberfield breadcrumbs......🙏🙏🙏

[tossing out fic like i'm spreading seeds for a starving flock of birds] some amberfield for u <3

(mild CW for Rach being a sad drunk bastard with Issues but dw she gets a hug)

---

Max doesn't often find herself grateful for her routine inability to get to sleep at a reasonable hour. 

Quite the contrary, most of the time, it's solely a source of strife and self-directed exasperation. But tonight is a little different. Tonight, she winds up relieved to still be up and about half past 2AM. 

At first, she's sort of startled by the noises emanating from the hallway. The dorm halls are more often than not dead silent at this hour, so the sound of slow, distant shuffling and rushed, muffled conversation comes as an abundantly apprehensive surprise. Most people — especially those as innately anxious as Max — would probably keep their head down and try not to get involved in whatever it is that's causing the unusual late-night ruckus. 

Max opens the door to her room and leans out to sneak a peek at what's happening. 

It becomes quickly apparent that the conversation she'd been hearing is better described as a bout of half-hearted bickering. As her eyes adjust to the switch from the blinding light of her computer to the dark of the corridors, Max is able to recognize the two shadowy shapes shambling closer.

“Can you please hold it together for the five goddamn minutes it'll take me to get you back to your room? Is that something you can do?” Victoria says in a sigh, pausing for a moment to both readjust Rachel's arm around her shoulders and stop her from tipping over. “God, you're such a pain in the ass.”

“Mhm, mhm, pain in the ass, I'm aware,” Rachel replies, murmured and slurred though still playfully roguish. “Can we slow down a sec? Pretty sure the floor shouldn't be spinnin’ that much.”

Max can see it taking all of Victoria's effort to keep her voice down. 

“Bitch, we're literally standing still. How you ever make it back here by yourself is beyond me.”

“Sometimes I don't,” Rachel supplies, rather unhelpfully. She breaks out into a sloppy and far too prideful grin. “One time I tripped in the stairwell and just gave up n’ took a nap there instead.” 

“And people still buy your little miss perfect schtick? I really am surrounded by morons.” 

“Hey, that's no fair. Max doesn't buy it. She's not a moron.”

“Caulfield is dating you,” Victoria huffs, once more attempting to stagger further down the hall. “That makes her a different breed of moron altogether.” 

“Vickyyyy, that's mean,” Rachel says in a magnificently childish whine. “M’not gonna make this easy for you if you're gonna be mean t’my Max.” 

“Don’t you dare. You're making it hard enough as it is, you drunk fucking dunce.”

Instead of answering out loud, Rachel begins to visibly lean more of her weight onto Victoria.

“Nope, no, stop that. Fuck's sake, try to work with me here, would ya? I'm barely any soberer than you.” 

Rachel's devilish little smile grows only wider as she all but deadweights into Victoria's side, so much so she practically drags the girl down to the floor with her. 

“That's so not a word.”

“It so is,” Victoria barks back, at what's probably an instinctively loud volume, before slapping a hand over her mouth and nearly losing grip of Rachel in the process. “Hey, watch it, you'd better not fucking fall. I'll leave you out here and let everyone else find you like that in the morning, don't fucking test me, Amber.”

It's no different in tone or timbre than anything else Victoria's been saying, but Rachel doesn't take it as harmless humor.

“Don't,” she begs, outright; voice suddenly soft and serious. Max watches her mischievous expression melt into one of anxious regret as she scrambles to straighten herself back up. “Please. I'll be good, promise.”

That's when Max finally stumbles out of her doorway to approach them. 

Victoria spots her coming and lets out a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank fuck. Max, get over here and take your pathetic whiny cat before she starts crying on me again.” 

“Are– Are you two okay?” Max asks in a whisper, semi-rhetorical, rushing up to Rachel's other side. 

Rachel wastes not a single second letting go of Victoria to latch onto Max instead.

“Yeah, yeah, we're fine,” Victoria grumbles, despite the concern threatening to show in her features. “Somebody just forgets what a fucking joke is when she gets too shitfaced.” 

“And Vicky’s lying ‘bout that whole crying thing, by the way,” Rachel adds, entirely not an answer to Max's question and muffled in the girl's shirt sleeve as she buries her face in her shoulder. “I don't do that.”

Annoyance returns to Victoria's expression in record time, and she rolls her eyes with near lethal force. “Christ, you're a menace.”

“I'm a delight,” Rachel counters with a haughty little huff, still sounding uncharacteristically unsteady. “Aren't I, Max?”

In any other context, this might fluster her, but right now all it does is make Max's chest tighten with worry. She wraps an arm around Rachel in return, resting a tentative hand on her back. 

“Of course you are,” she answers, equally unsteady and equally genuine. “And thanks, Victoria. For getting her back safe.”

“Sure, whatever,” Victoria shrugs. “She's your problem now, Caulfield. Have fun.”

She stalks off in the direction of her own room, and Max decides it's probably best not to mention how much she's struggling to walk straight even without Rachel hanging off of her. Although, as Max convinces Rachel to let go of her long enough to continue heading down the hall, she finds the act of trying to keep balance for the both of them is indeed quite difficult. They're almost at Rachel's door when she murmurs something that has Max doubling down on the already immense doubt of the idea of leaving her on her own. 

“M’Sorry for bein’ your problem. You still… You still like me, right?” 

For a minute, Max is almost too taken aback to answer. But she recovers quickly enough. 

“You're not a problem, Rachel,” she assures in a mumble of her own, mind instantaneously made up as she slowly veers them over towards her room instead; thankfully not far. “And yes, I still like you. It's gonna take a lot more than that to change my mind, silly.” 

There's a stretch of silence as they finally shuffle their way into Max's dorm. She hopes the shaky attempt at lightening the mood at least served its purpose.

“Really?” Rachel asks in earnest, apparently not even registering the fact that Max is trying to get her to sit down. She wraps the girl up in another simultaneously languid and overzealous hug, unwittingly leaning most of her weight against her as she nuzzles into her hair. “Mm, that's so nice. How come you're so nice t’me?”

Max can't help but frown at that. 

“Why shouldn't I be?” she muses as she manages to detangle herself from Rachel's grasp and set her down on the edge of the bed, not expecting an actual answer.

But Rachel does, in fact, have an answer to such a question. 

“I’m nothin’ but a fraud,” she says, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, blinking up at Max with all the heart-wrenchingly pitiable shame of a kitten caught playing with something they aren't supposed to. “One day, you n’ Chloe are gonna wake up n’ come to your senses. And when you walk away, I'll smile for you ‘cause I know it'll be all my fault you're leaving. I'd leave me, too.”

Max finds herself stunned into silence for a second time in one night. Rachel offers only a wavering smile as she continues.

“S’Why I like to leave first, see? But I–”

Her voice hitches, and she makes no attempt to hide her face even as tears well up and start dripping down her reddened cheeks. 

“I think I like you guys too much, ‘cause I never wanna leave,” she admits, her smile crumbling under its own weight as she adds in a small, wilted whisper; “I don't want you to go, either.” 

Before she can run herself any farther down the endlessly winding paths of worst case outcomes, Max takes the girl's face in her hands, tucking some stray hair aside and running a thumb along Rachel's cheekbone. 

“Hey, hey, nobody's leaving anybody, okay? And here I thought I was the one with the catastrophizing problem.”

Rachel refuses to meet her gaze. 

“I'm not catrasto– catastrophying– catastrophing–” She heaves a harsh, watery sigh. “I'm just… planning ahead. S’Good to be prepared.”

Max gives her a somber smile, trying to brush away some of her tears. “Y’know, that sounds like something I’d say when you're telling me I'm overthinking things.”

Rachel pulls back, petulant and pensive expression quickly hidden in her sleeves as she rubs at her eyes. Max moves to sit beside her instead, inching close enough their shoulders almost touch. Almost. 

“... Is that why you drank so much tonight? Too much planning ahead?”

“No,” Rachel insists, in spite of how she sounds like a lost child. “Maybe. Would– Would you be mad at me?”

It's sort of fascinating, in a morbid, viscerally upsetting kind of way. To see Rachel so uncertain of something, to see her lost in the whirlwind of hopelessly intertwined honesty and fear; all the while knowing full well she wouldn't dare say any of this out loud if she weren't absolutely goddamn plastered. And as bad as it sounds, the fact that she didn't immediately deny being as wasted as she is just adds another layer of uncanny concern to the whole situation.

Equal parts melancholic and honeyed, Max says, “I'm not mad at you. I'm just worried.” 

“Promise? I know you're a better liar than Chloe is.” 

Max tries not to feel too wounded by that. She's always thought Rachel's silver tongue must have its limits.

She lays the barest hint of her hand over Rachel's beside her. “I promise, baby.”

Rachel goes quiet again for a minute or two before eventually leaning in to rest her head on Max's shoulder with a half-hearted whine. “Sometimes I think I don't deserve how nice you are, Max.” 

“I think you're just too hard on yourself,” Max tells her, small but weighted. “Chloe would say the same thing if she were here.”

“Nuh-uh.” Rachel turns further into Max's side, one hand reaching to idly toy with the hem of her pajama shirt. “She'd say I'm being a dumbass.”

“Exactly.” Max shifts around a bit so she can wrap an arm around Rachel and keep her close. “That's her way of telling you you're too hard on yourself.” 

“... Yeah,” Rachel finally agrees, sounding an awful lot like she's crying again. “I know.” 

Max lets her stay like that for a while, but there comes a point where she has to bite the bullet and call attention to it. She tries to be gentle, at least. 

“We should probably get you to bed soon, huh?” she asks in a hesitant whisper. “I bet you're tired. You should have some water first, though. You're gonna have such a headache in the morni–”

Before Max can finish the thought, she's pushed back onto the bed and held down with all the speed and cunning of a cat trapping a mouse beneath its paws. Rachel cements her new position overtop of Max by curling up and wrapping her arms around the girl's waist, burying her face in her shirt. 

“Don’t need any,” she says, no doubt far more weak and timid than she intends. “Won’t get a headache.”

“Rachel.” Max calls her name in a murmur both ashen and sugared. She tries to wriggle her way out from underneath the girl so she can sit back up, and fails miserably. “Rach, c'mon, let me grab you some–” 

“No.”

If Max didn't know any better, she'd call that a whimper. 

“Just– Stay. Please?” 

Despite her reluctance, it's not much of a dilemma. Not if Rachel is asking like that. 

“Okay, okay,” Max secedes with a soft sigh, frowning when Rachel only curls up tighter. She reaches down to card her fingers through the girl's hair. “Hey, it's alright. I'm here. You've got me.” 

“All night?” Rachel asks, laden with unwilling drowsiness and more pitiful than Max has ever heard her. “You'll– You'll still be here when I wake up, right? You're not gonna run away like I do?”

Max wonders if Rachel will even remember any of this in the morning.

It wouldn't change her answer. 

“All night,” she echoes, steadfast and strong even as she whispers it into the sullen dark. “I'll be right here. Promise.” 

[teecupangel]

Once upon a moonlit night, in the forgotten attic of an ancient manor, a spectral figure with wispy tendrils of mist for limbs, sat at an old oak desk. Beside her, a ferret, her faithful companion, scurried about, his tiny paws brushing against the dusty floorboards.

The ghost longed to share her tales with the world, but her ethereal form made it impossible to hold a pen or parchment. Yet, she possessed a voice that could weave enchanting stories. With a rustle of excitement, the ferret scampered over to a worn journal, ready to serve as her conduit once more.

As she whispered her latest creation, the ferret diligently transcribed every word, his delicate claws scratching across the yellowed pages. Together, they brought to life tales of adventure, love, and mystery, each word a testament to their unwavering bond.

One evening, as the stars twinkled outside the attic window, they both decided to send one of their stories to a faraway land once more, where they hoped it would find its way into the hearts of readers. With a flicker of her translucent form, she dictated the letter while he scribbled furiously, his whiskers twitching with concentration.

With the letter complete, they entrusted it to the care of the night, watching as it vanished into the darkness, carried by an unseen breeze. And though they knew not if their words would ever be read, the ghost and the ferret found solace in the knowledge that they had shared a piece of their souls with the world.

As dawn painted the sky with hues of pink and gold, a letter arrived at the post office.

Inside it says: "I've been researching about mythological creatures and came upon the Manananggal. It's creepy and cool so Desmond or anyone else you prefer becoming this would either be badass or angsty."

For those unfamiliar with the Manananggal (and I will definitely misspell it in this post at least once), it’s a mythical creature of the night in Philippine folklore.

During the day, they’re normal looking people but, at night, their upper torso sprout bat wings and separates from the lower toros (some describe it with intestines dangling, some don’t). During this separated form, sunlight burns them so they have to fuse back before sunrise.

It made its debut as the first Filipino folklore related demon in Shin Megami Tensei V too.

��

Okay soooooo…

When I was a kid, I watched this horror movie that has a Manananggal in it. Scared the crap out of me when I was a kid.

There was this scene where the Manananngal was on the roof and the roof was made of some kind of leaves so the Manananggal could slip her really long tongue inside while the people sleep to eat the unborn baby of this pregnant woman.

(Because unborn babies are like one of their favorite food or something)

That gave me nightmares for months (and made me stare into the ceiling unable to sleep at times XD)

And now that I’m no longer a child, all I can think of is…

The Manananggal’s greatest weakness is that finding their lower half and sprinkling it with salt would make it impossible for the two halves to combine and, apparently, Manananngal burn in sunlight IF they’re not ‘fused’ (so yeah, they’re sorta counted as a kind of vampire)

In other words, the best way to defeat a Manananggal is to find their lower half and drench it with salt XD

I absolutely got sidetracked so let’s focus back on Desmond.

For this one, the first time he transformed into a Manananggal, he freaked out because, holy shit, he separated from his lower body.

What the fuck. What the fuck.

And that’s the start of his problem.

First of all: he has no idea what a Manananggal is (unless we throw him a bone and either (1) make him read horror folklore of other countries as a hobby or (2) make his mother Filipino or Filipino descent who knows about Manananggal and used it to scare him as a kid so he’d sleep early) so he’s flying by the seat of his pants (hehe)

And now we have four difficulties:

Easy Mode: Desmond became a Manananggal in modern day (after the Solar Flare? His mother is actually a Manananggal and passed it on him? Shrug). This means he can just check the net to figure out what he can and cannot do.

Normal Mode: Desmond becomes a Manananggal after being transported to Ratonhnhaké:ton’s time. Why is this normal mode? Because Manila was under British occupation for like… a couple of months in 1760s so there is British presence in the Philippines (somewhat) during the long Spanish Colonial rule. By this point, we can make an argument that the Spanish Brotherhood and the British Brotherhood would have some-ish information about the Philippines so it’s possible that they could be able to find information (or have a Filipino Assassin that’s in Spain or something) that can help Desmond.

Hard Mode: Desmond becomes a Manananggal after being transported to Ezio’s time. Leonardo could help try and understand how this all work. But the most important thing is that they would have the Apple depending on when you put Desmond. If the Apple can give them information about Desmond’s current situation, this lowers the difficulty. (aka: hardest during the start of AC2, after the prologue of Brotherhood and, well, all of Revelations until they enter the library)

Hard-er Mode: Altaïr’s time would be a harder time for Desmond because the best time to kick him into that timeline is AC1 so the Apple is with Al Mualim. He’d have to spend months trying to figure shit out while Altaïr tries to help and is also distracted with his missions. Of course, if this is after AC1, then the Apple is there to help out and Altaïr wouldn’t mind using it. (aka: only hard in the beginning then smooth sailing from there)

(As for food, blood is a staple food supply for Manananggal as far as I know so he can drink that instead of you know…)

========= For the alchemist side of this =========

There were many strange and wonderful things he had seen over the course of delivering items from and for the alchemist.

But this…

“I’ll have to check if we can actually deliver this.” He said with a frown, staring at the pair of bat wings that the alchemist had given him.

Well…

Dropped on his poor battered wagon anyway.

“Why? It’s not alive.”

“Oh, that’s not the problem.” He said as he scratched his cheek, “We have a weight and length limit.”

The alchemist’s brows furrowed at that.

“Oh.”

They both stared at the bat wings, each wing as big as the alchemist themselves.

How tall were they anyway?

5’4 maybe? 5’3?

He wasn’t sure.

This might be too big for them to deliver.

Shame.

It looked so real.

“It’s not… like… what do cityfolks call it? Taxidermatology or something?”

“No, it’s purely made with alchemy.” The alchemist answered before walking inside.

He opened his mouth to call them back but they returned soon enough with a wicker basket that had some kind of lid. They pulled the lid open and placed it on the ground before grabbing the bat wings.

He took a step towards the alchemist when they wobbled under the weight of the bat wings and his eyes widened as his jaw dropped when the alchemist began to put the bat wing inside the basket.

Slowly, the large batwing disappeared into the basket. It didn’t change shape or showed any sign of ever receiving such an impossible load.

Once the rest of the bat wing was inside, the alchemist closed the lid and handed the basket to him.

“Here.”

“Uuuuhhh… Alchemy?” He asked as he took the basket from them, earning a nod.

“Yup.”

[gingermintpepper]

I am only a teenager but I really want to write novel turned into a musical called - "Titanomachy"

Well, I have fantastic news for you @kylianriley you can start writing your dream project at any age! Chances are very high you won't be a teenager when you finish writing the novel! But, genuinely, my advice - if you're in the market for such a thing - is to earnestly start if it's something you truly want to do. Give yourself time to research, give yourself time to change your plans around, give yourself time to be interested in the topics you want to explore and to really soak in what you want to portray and how. When it comes to myth-based media, it's really good to remember that this is someone's culture, that these figures are encoded with meaning and that part of telling their stories is adapting that meaning!

Good luck with writing man! Enjoy the process and learn lots of new things! There's always people waiting for good stories to be told <3

[jacarandaaaas]

ooh someone pointed out that bruno acts almost the same as mirabel but he’s praised for being “different” whilst mirabel is criticized for it