#but i always will write happy endings

[sunnami]

The anons requesting an angsty ending to the enemies to lovers story are respectfully masochists. I don’t think my heart could take an angsty ending lmfao

they rlly are 😞😞 LMAOAOAOA. . . but don’t worry, the enemies to lovers au has a happy ending—it’s been planned from the start! :3

[rebelspykatie]

Robin convinces Steve that Eddie is interested in him, just based on how frequently he flirts with Steve. Uses the same logic that Steve deployed to convince her to give Vickie a shot. Except, there’s no doubt about who Eddie could be attracted to. He’s gay and doesn’t really flirt much with women, keeps it more surface level. 

But with Steve, he’s all over him, getting in his personal space, tapping his chin, batting his eyelashes and draping himself over his lap during movie nights. Steve’s confident in his newly discovered attraction to men, and subtly tries to turn up the charm on his end. Flirting back, giving as good as he gets, but it never seems to affect Eddie. 

Steve’s gotten used to striking out. Never really catching anyone’s attention these days, what with the lackluster attempts at being interested in the mundane things some of the girls drone on about, to being afraid to sleep over for fear of a nightmare tearing him from sleep, to the way no one makes his skin buzz. He’s given up the pursuit of anyone else, setting his sights on Eddie, pushing gently at the boundaries that barely exist between them. 

Until the first time Steve and Robin are invited to see Corroded Coffin perform at the Hideout. He watches from afar as Eddie bounces across the room before the show. He hasn’t spotted them yet as he makes his way over to the bar. There’s a cute, older guy bartending, probably in his late twenties, buzz cut hair, ripped leather vest accentuating his arms. 

Steve watches in what feels like slow motion as Eddie leans over the counter to get as close as possible to this guy. That mischievous smirk that Steve’s used to seeing pointed at him is out in full force. Eddie is saying something, looking up at this guy, reaching out to squeeze a bicep and getting playfully batted away. Eddie lets the guy tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, almost a caress along the side of Eddie’s face. 

And there’s a moment where Steve feels like he’s floating on air, suspended in a moment in time before a catastrophic shift changes his trajectory. He’s careening to the ground at break neck speed and crash landing all in a matter of seconds. A vice-like grip squeezes his heart, reminding him that he’s not special. He’s dissecting every memory of Eddie flirting, finding nothing consequential there in the wake of this discovery. 

How stupid could he have been to think that it meant anything? That must be why Eddie never reacted to his advances, they were just a blip on his radar. He’s got this guy wrapped around his finger, just like he’s had Steve. Except Eddie’s never blushed like that around him, or let Steve tuck his hair away. 

As much as he wants to turn around and get the hell out of here, he promised he’d come to Eddie’s show, even if looking at Eddie right now feels like a shot straight through his heart. That inexplicable draw to Eddie doesn’t just disappear. He wants to cross the room and drag him away from this guy, but what right does he have to do that? 

He feels Robin’s hand slip into his, turns to look at her, sees a mirror image of how she looked on the grimy bathroom floor of Starcourt, letting Steve down gently. Their friendship past the point of needing to verbally communicate anything. Robin gently tugs on his arm to convince him to sit at a table, clasping his hand underneath it tightly when Eddie finally spots them and Steve has to pretend like he’s fine. And he is fine. 

But he’s also not. His heart is cracking open with each note Eddie sings, the fault line growing until it feels like he’s split in two, bleeding out on the floor of this disgusting bar. When is he going to get it right? When is it his turn to feel wanted? Nancy and Robin hurt, but he feels blindsided by this one. He was so confident he was right, that this time it was reciprocated. 

But maybe he’ll always be the fool.

[spectrum-spectre]

give me an Al Munson who cleans up his act in prison and gets released early on good behavior a few months after the "earthquake" struck the town.

give me an Al Munson who hears the news about the murders shortly after getting out, and realizes it's his fault the people of Hawkins had so readily believed that Eddie could be capable of such things.

give me an Al Munson who immediately starts looking for Eddie to apologize for being a shitty dad.

give me an Al Munson who works his ass off for months to get back into Wayne's good graces and prove that he wants to be a part of Eddie's life again.

give me an Al Munson who may not understand his son's sexuality, but takes the time to unlearn some of his bigotries if it means gaining Eddie's trust back.

just give me an Al Munson who is trying to be better.

[shyvioletlife]

It doesn't matter how much time passes, I am always in awe over the way that drosselmeyer is written in princess tutu. He is omnipresent from the word go, his meddling eyes watching the show with us and giggling about this wonderful tragedy that is set to unfold. Every time his eyes appear on the screen it feels not just like a god staring down the characters and making them dance to his whim, but like he is looking you, the viewer, dead in the eye and taunting you. A playwright who wants nothing but beautiful terrible tragedy for all involved inviting you to attend his latest theatrical debut.

I feel to the core of my being every time the characters lament their lot in life, doomed by the narrative, because that fate is not something ordained by uncaring gods. Drosselmeyer wants to see his characters grasp at any chance of hope or happiness only so he can watch the look on their faces as it slips from their hands and out of reach. He cares very deeply about their strife because he has hand crafted it just for them. As every episode passes I feel the desperation of the characters as if it is my own

The thought of undermining Drosselmeyer becomes insurmountably daunting, too, the longer the story goes on. The closer his work is to completion the more power he seems to hold, and the knot tightens its grip around every character in the story to a painful degree by the end. To become such an overwhelming threat as the final villain of the story is truly a work of art, and by the end of my watchthroughs I am always booing and yelling at the guy every time he comes on screen. Even though I know how the story goes I am wracked with the desire for Drosselmeyer to get his comeuppance and the cast of princess tutu to wrench their fates out of his grasp, and the catharsis of the end is as true and harrowing as any tragedy that man could hope to write.

[hiphopcherrrypop]

"second coming of christ" + it's saint young men jesus

[muscariii]

Part 3, let's go.

(part 1 , part 2)

Ayyy sorry for the huge delay but I finally did it. Well, kind of. Because like I mentioned in that shitpost, I made 14 pages actually. But I'm splitting it because it'll be better that way. So I just gotta finish the rest and yeah. Fun :3

I may have overexaggerated Caius but this was kind of influenced by my first impression of him during my first playthrough.

Rasha isn't very happy about the situation she's currently in. She's currently kind of grumpy about everything but she's going to get more fun soon. I think!!

I'll try to get the rest of the pages done as fast as I can!! And then more and more hopefully. Hope you guys enjoy at least because I'm worried this will be boring.

[minamill]

Family album

details under the cut

[inoreuct]

more sanji drinking angst plis,,, 🙏🏼😁

y’know, it’s normal when zoro drinks. he has an iron liver and a sky-high tolerance. he get mildly tipsy with the amount of alcohol sufficient to kill a regular man.

when sanji drinks, though, it’s usually… not very good.

they’re in the galley, have been since dinner. zoro’s drowsy and full and slumped over the table with his chin in his hand as he watches sanji scrub at the dishes until they squeak, divested of his suit jacket and shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow, and the cook looks haggard. they’ve all been expecting it, really, what with Whole Cake being a fucking doozy— but sanji’s been holding it together perfectly. big smiles and neatly-pressed suits and coiffed hair and all.

zoro knows him well enough to know that he’s due to break at some point. still, tonight is the first time he’s seen sanji like this; like he’d just decided to say fuck it all and throw pretence to the wind. maybe it had been thanks to the emptiness of the galley, save the both of them. maybe sanji had considered it safe because zoro was in no place to judge.

but when sanji had picked up that bottle of rum, he hadn’t put it down until there was nothing left.

zoro had let him drink. the cook hadn’t even been smoking any more than usual��� hadn’t had a single hair out of place, no sign of the pressure except the strain at the edges of his smile. everybody had been walking on eggshells for the past few days and sanji had just kept going like nothing was wrong, which zoro knows means quite a lot is wrong, because sanji’s a self-sacrificial bastard who wouldn’t be able to ask for help if his life depended on it.

didn’t mean it hadn’t hurt, though. he’s felt like he couldn’t breathe, the whole of last week; it doesn’t feel right seeing the cook with a bottle between his lips instead of a cigarette, liquor wetting the corners of his mouth instead of smoke. it makes part of zoro tighten into a dead knot. on one hand, it’s an unspoken show of trust— deliberately left alone so as to not draw attention to it, but one all the same. sanji would never let himself go in front of anyone else like this. maybe a few months earlier he’d think the cook just didn’t care enough for his opinion and get all offended, but now?

sanji knows he’s here. he’s never unaware of his surroundings, and especially now after… everything. he’s believing that zoro won’t judge him, and he won’t. he doesn’t. but enough is enough, and sanji’s grip on the edge of the plate is tight enough to turn his knuckles white.

it’s almost a relief in a really twisted way. zoro’s been hovering by the sidelines, sleeping with one eye open and waiting for sanji to crack just so he can catch all the pieces before the cook falls apart completely, and it seems like this is it.

his chair scrapes against the floor as he stands. “alright, let’s get you to bed.”

“no.” sanji doesn’t stop scrubbing. he doesn’t even bother looking up. “why?”

zoro scoffs. “because you’re fucking drunk, cook. you’ve been washing that plate for five minutes.”

“well maybe it’s just not fucking clean, yeah?” sanji spits, quiet vitriol leadening his words even with his head bowed, and his breathing is jerky as zoro walks forward.

“oi.” it doesn’t come out harshly, exactly, but he needs sanji to know that he isn’t fucking around with this. “What the hell’s going on?”

“i don’t know.”

“what do you mean you don’t—”

“i don’t know!”

zoro lurches back at the outburst as the cook whips around, seething within the span of a second, plate dropped carelessly into the water in the sink. he hears it thunk when it hits the bottom.

“i don’t know, alright?” sanji laughs, eyes wild. “nothing’s wrong. everything’s wrong. everything is fucking perfect and i feel like i’m fucking dying inside.” his voice cracks right before he takes a visible breath and turns sharply, dipping his hand under the water to grab the plate and sponge again.

zoro watches his shoulders tremble. every movement of his now is precise and carefully calculated; he’s moving like a fucking robot and zoro hates it. hates the way his spine looks rigid enough to snap with a touch. hates the way his face is a placid mask, still water with a storm roiling beneath. zoro doesn’t know how to approach this other than with barbed words and concern thinly veiled as confrontation. he doesn’t know what to do other than be here because it’s better than not being here at all.

sanji’s hands have been scrubbed pink and raw. “get out, mosshead.”

“no.”

the cook’s cuticles are peeling, his fingertips pruned. he never lets either of them get this bad. “i said get out—”

“and I said no.” zoro crosses his arms. he counts three seconds of silence before sanji snaps.

“god, for once could you fucking listen?!” the cook snarls, rounding on zoro like a cornered animal and waving his arms. “i don’t want to talk to you right now! i do not want you here! so please, fuck off and— put me down, you piece of shit!” sanji borderline screams, struggling and wiggling over zoro’s shoulder as he’s hauled up and marched out of the galley.

zoro winces as the toe of a steel-capped oxford jams into his ribs, digging in deeper as sanji grunts with the effort. he doesn’t know where he’s going but they end up outside the infirmary, and he shoulders the door open before depositing sanji on the bed without preamble. “stay,” he grunts, ignoring the noises of outrage and turning to go get water.

“you can’t tell me what to do,” sanji spits from behind him, cheeks red from more than just anger as he pushes himself unsteadily to his feet. he either doesn’t realise that he’s listing to the side or he doesn’t care.

“sit down or I’ll make you.”

the cook barks a laugh that snaps in the air like a neck in rope. “try! i fucking dare you, marimo, you—”

zoro tackles him down and he screeches like a trapped cat, trying to escape even as the swordsman pins his legs and shoves his shoulders down into the bunk. “you are drunk. stop it.”

“why?” sanji shouts in his face. the cook is straining against him, all wild eyes and bared teeth, shoulders jerking with a sardonic laugh. “don’t wanna fight anymore?”

“no. i don’t.” the air is suddenly too quiet, too heavy, with something zoro doesn’t know if he should name. he watches as the cook’s face falls and twists into something sullen as he tries one last time to jerk his way out of zoro’s hold. “not like this.”

their ship rocks gently as zoro slowly eases off, shifting his weight back and sitting on the edge of the mattress with a soundless, weary sigh. there’s still a stubborn set to sanji’s chin even as he lays there on his back, unmoving from where zoro put him— leave it to him to be contrary for the sake of being contrary. the swordsman takes a deep breath to suppress an eye roll and opens his mouth to say something—

“it hurts.”

zoro stills, turning so he can see sanji better. “what hurts, cook?”

“everything.”

the blond is staring at the ceiling, unblinking and unreadable. the fabric of his slacks is riding up and zoro swallows down the urge to curl a hand around his pale ankle for comfort. he tells himself he doesn’t know where the urge to soothe came from, but he knows, he knows— this melancholy is something that sanji buries so deep, none of them catch even a glimpse of it on a normal day. his face is a blank slate, his usual fire banked, and he looks so drained. an cracked shell of himself running on empty. “i don’t want to feel it. i don’t want to feel anything,” he continues, softly enough that zoro has to strain to hear, leaning in instinctively. 

glossy blue eyes flick over. golden hair scrunches against the off-white sheets as sanji turns his face towards him and whispers, “doesn’t that make me exactly like them?”

no. zoro swallows, at the same time both too wet and too dry, feeling a little like he’s been gutted with a dull knife. he says a mental to hell with it and slowly shifts his hand to wrap his fingers around sanji’s ankle, just a gentle grip, his thumb resting beneath the notch of bone. he can hear the soft sounds of the waves outside as it melds with sanji’s breathing, as he opens his mouth and comes up dry for things to say. “…get some sleep, curls.”

“can’t.” sanji purses his lips, shrugging a shoulder as he looks away like it’s no big deal. “can’t sleep. not well, at least. not since…”

zoro feels his own heart thud against his ribs as his gaze slips over sanji’s face, the redness rimming his eyes and the dark circles beneath. “i’m sleeping with you tonight,” he decides. 

the cook makes an aborted noise of indignation before apparently deciding that it isn’t worth the effort. “we can’t fit two people in a bed.”

zoro shrugs, unaffected in the face of the venomous look sanji shoots him. “we can try.”

sanji mutters something to the ceiling under his breath. the swordsman pretends not to hear it.

they end up crammed onto the infirmary bed, sanji squashed against the wall and zoro almost falling off. the blond wiggles around in discomfort for five minutes before sitting bolt upright with a hissed curse and undoing his dress shirt in a frenzy; zoro stifles a laugh as he balls it up and hurls it at the desk across the room before flopping back down with a loud huff. 

the cook scrunches himself up, spine pressed against the wall and one knee pulled up between them to maintain the distance, pointed at zoro’s gut as a subtle threat. “i’m not gonna bite you, y’know,” zoro grumbles. here he is doing this out of goodwill and this is how he’s treated. 

“i wouldn’t put it past you,” sanji snips in reply. “also, you stink.”

“no i don’t. i just showered.”

“irrelevant.”

“priss.”

“moron.”

“spoiled.”

“i have standards, you sentient piece of kelp.”

“you—” zoro grits out, before he stalls. somehow, throughout this whole exchange, they’d inched closer and closer together and now sanji’s shoulder is digging into his breastbone, his breath warm across zoro’s cheek even as a brush of his skin above the loose, low front of zoro’s shirt feels completely opposite. “why’re you so fuckin’ cold?” he mutters, briskly rubbing at sanji’s upper arms before the cook bats him away with a startled hiss.

“don’t—” he cuts off and huffs a harsh breath, sneering in the dark as he digs for the right word, “—coddle me.”

“why not?” zoro shoots back. the words are out of his mouth faster than he can process, but it’s too late to take them back. “give me one good reason and i’ll stop. just one.” 

the quiet that falls into place after that is broken by the sound of sanji’s swallow and nothing else. it’s nearly pitch-black; they’d put out the lamp on the wall and the infirmary has no windows. if zoro strains his eye he can see sanji’s outline curled close to his own front, golden hair darkened to honey and arms wrapped around himself.

he recalls how it had felt to have fine bones beneath his hand. how the cook hadn’t kicked him off. 

the hand he rests on sanji side is tentative. barely-there pressure, a ghost of a touch with enough space for sanji to back away. he settles his palm down more firmly after a few seconds, tracking his thumb up and down the bumps of sanji’s ribs, and he barely stops his breath from catching when the cook wiggles away from the wall and presses his spine into zoro’s hand. 

sanji’s looking at him. he can see the occasional flutter of long lashes, feel the weight of the cook’s attention like sanji’s preparing to say something, but it never comes. a soft breath slips from his lips before zoro feels a hand curl around his waist, fingers curling into his shirt. 

“sanji.”

the cook heaves a long-suffering sigh. it doesn’t hide how he’s affected by zoro using his real name; zoro can read him too well for that. knows him too well for that. “what.”

zoro readjusts, fingertips pressing into the small of sanji’s back to pull him closer, and wonder of wonders, the cook lets him. “you’re nothing like them.” 

he pretends he doesn’t feel sanji’s arm tighten around him after a few seconds. he notices that his shirt’s damp right before he falls asleep, right where sanji has his face buried in his shoulder.

he doesn’t mention any of it.

*

the next morning is… interesting.

zoro had woken to an empty bed, with the sheets just barely warm and hazy recollections of a lithe body tucked to his side, a leg thrown over his and soft hair under his chin. he stretches and ambles down to the galley, scratching at his stomach beneath his shirt as he yawns, and right on cue— sanji’s disdainful little tongue click reaches his ears, and he smiles. everything’s back to normal, then. 

there’s more of the usual; luffy getting yelled at to leave the eggs alone, i don’t care if you’re hungry, they are raw, and nami and robin being handed their special little tiny cups of coffee and tea respectively. the rest of the crew filters in, and zoro people-watches from his spot on the ratty corner couch before he eventually gets up and slides into his seat at the table. 

but when sanji takes his spot beside him, it feels different. the cook’s made onigiri for breakfast, the plate set down just a little closer to zoro’s side than usual before he sits, and zoro pauses with his chopsticks in the air as an ankle bumps into his. 

not roughly, or painfully, nowhere near, no. just a reminder. a small nudge that could say any possible number of things, but from the way sanji’s gaze meets his before darting away, he’d guess it’s the thank you that their cook always has so much trouble saying. it’s never a lack of gratitude— more of a refusal to acknowledge that he needed help in the first place, that he accepted it, but zoro will take what he can get.

the circles under sanji’s eyes aren’t quite so dark anymore.

zoro knocks back. he feels the rasp of his boot laces against the heel of sanji’s patent leather oxford, and neither of them pull away. the swordsman presses his lips together and takes a big bite to hide his smile, failing momentarily when sanji immediately starts berating his abysmal table manners, marimo, honestly, if you choke i will leave you to die, and yeah, sure. back to normal.

he catches sanji’s eye again, sky-cornflower-ocean blue, and he wonders what sanji could be seeing in his to make his face soften like that.

normal, and maybe a little something new. 

(he isn’t quite sure what to do the following night. sanji’s already in his own bunk when he slips in for a quick few hours of shut-eye, but it isn’t long before he feels someone climbing in with him, and he just knows instinctively without even needing to open his eye. they’ve got limbs hanging out here and there but they fit reasonably well and zoro wakes with sanji’s sleep shirt tucked in his fist and his thin blanket pulled up around his shoulders.

it goes on like this night after night to the point where their crew knows, he thinks. even if zoro discounts the fact that most of them share a bunkroom, they’ve still got to know something’s up; sanji glows like sunlight reflecting off the ocean now, real smiles and laughs that have him tossing his head back and holding his stomach, eyes in sapphire half-moons. robin brings it up offhandedly one day and zoro hums that proper sleep’s doing their cook good— she gives him that look that she does, and he turns away with a smile that he hides in his arm.

the first time sanji finds him in the crow’s nest, he’s still asleep when zoro’s watch ends. the cook’s stretched out on the bench above as zoro sits on the floor, hand draped down against zoro’s collarbone, his face so peaceful that zoro can’t— fuck, he can’t wake him.

and it can’t be comfortable lying on his own arm like that; zoro sits down and carefully pushes him up until sanji’s leaning on his shoulder, that sharp nose tucked under his jaw, and drifts asleep.)

(he stirs awake before sanji’s gone. his eye flutters open to find the cook mid-yawn, working out a crick in his neck and bathed in early-morning light, warm and golden. the cook realises he’s watching and freezes, shoulders going tense and stiff—

he deflates a little when zoro blinks at him, sleep-warm and bleary. “gotta make breakfast, marimo,” he murmurs, reaching out after a moment’s hesitation.

the hand that cups zoro’s cheek is gently callused and somehow familiar. he turns into it like a flower to the sun and breathes in something that he never even realised he’d gotten used to, olive oil and shoe polish and orange blossom pomade. “i know,” he replies, pressing the words into sanji’s palm, and a thumb drags across his cheekbone.

“need anything before i go?” sanji asks, and they both know it’s half a joke. what could he possibly give zoro in here? a dumbbell sandwich?

that other half, though— it’s far too serious. a cold plunge of water through zoro’s muddled early-morning brain. he knows what he wants, but zoro also knows that patience is a virtue for a reason.

the cook already has a hard enough time letting people in. zoro doesn’t want to push. the hand against his cheek is enough for him, even if it is all sanji could ever want, and so he slips the blond a wry grin. “onigiri?”

“you— ugh, fine.” sanji huffs. “anything else?”

zoro frowns, growing increasingly convinced that this is some sort of trap. these are unprecedented levels of generosity. “…protein shake?”

it takes all of two seconds before sanji puts his face into his hands, taking a deep breath before zoro hears something about having to do everything myself, don’t i? the cook plants his hands on his hips, tapping his foot with one brow arched. “of all the people in the world,” he mutters through his teeth, advancing on zoro with enough of a menacing air that the swordsman leans back into the backrest, “of course it had to be you.”

“me what?” zoro says warily, eyeing sanji up and down, and opens his mouth to continue before a fist grips his collar and there’s a brush of contact at his temple— a kiss, he realises, before all the thoughts drain out of his fucking brain.)

(he’s still reeling when he stumbles his way to breakfast. still wide-eyed as he washes the plates, for once, without complaint. it’s when it’s just the two of them, when zoro twists around to ask a question that he hasn’t yet phrased, that arms lock around his waist and sanji’s forehead presses to his nape.

they’re quiet for a long, long while. “you remind me that i’m not like them, y’know,” sanji breathes, barely loud enough to be heard.

zoro turns in his hold, hands dripping all over the floor, fuck, the cook’ll make him clean that up later, he knows and he isn’t even mad about it. “what do you mean, curls?”

sanji leans into him, all sharp edges and bony joints softened by lean muscle and zoro’s fondness, fingers long and thin and laced together over zoro’s hip. “i’m pretty damn sure they’ve never felt like this.”)

(not much changes after that. franky does make them a bigger bunk to share, though, and they fight perhaps even more fiercely now; afternoons are spent toying with each other across the deck, pushing their limits, pushing each other higher until nami yells at them to stop making a racket. zoro doesn’t pretend that he can’t tell when sanji needs a little more contact, keeping him close when perfectly filed nails dig into his shirt. sanji takes care of them all like he always does, and he lets zoro take care of him— most of the time, at least. it’s still a toss-up on whether he’ll explode or break down whenever anyone tries to help him, but with zoro it’s either both in succession or neither.

sometimes he picks a fight and then cries afterwards. others, he concedes to being wrapped in a ratty old blanket and tucked into zoro’s chest where he can hide from the world.

he sleeps through every night now, though. he’s fiery and sharp-tongued and bright-eyed and when he’s had a bit too much to drink he just gets loud, fooling around with their captain and cackling with nami in a corner of the galley between conspiratorial whispers, but zoro can’t deny him anything even though he’s fairly sure they’re plotting his downfall.

he wouldn’t have it any other way.)

[toxintouch]

Yooooooo, you write fan fictions, don't you? Halloween is, like, right over there *points*. would you be willing to do one of mhin taking sparrow ghost hunting? and maybe even having a "guest appearance" of a certain shadow manipulator?

if this has already been done, could you point me in the right direction?

thank you~

I've never seen a fic like that but omg. This is such a brilliant idea, I love how all the pieces come together so perfectly–Vere being said to be responsible for his fair share of local ghost stories, mentions of Mhin and haunted houses in the Uquiz results… Premium thoughts.  I had a lot of fun writing this, ty for giving me the prompt!! :>

It took a couple of extra days but it's also longer (~2900 words) so hopefully that makes up for it.  p.s sorry if u meant it to be more gen bc I wrote romantic pining lol Volume Warning! Ambiance (~BEAUTIFUL FOX NOISES) for y'all /j

Cold Spots

You pull your cloak tighter around yourself, sheltering your remaining body heat from the howling wind.  

You ignore the shiver that creeps down your spine.

You’ve been warned that the night is chilly in Eridia at this time of year, but you haven’t quite scraped together enough coin to afford more layers.  So you huddle closer to the swaying lamplight of the Wet Wick, attempting to leech warmth from the cheery (if occasionally overwhelming) atmosphere of the bar.  You’re on edge, wary about straying too far from the Wick’s affable open doors and the balmy light spilling out of them.

You crane your neck to peer as far as you can around the corner without moving, eyeing the myriad of nearby alleyways, all full to the brim with shadows, searching for a familiar splash of moonlight and blue sweeping through the night.

 That’s when you feel eyes on your back.

You freeze, all of your senses on high alert.

“You’re where I asked you to be.”  Mhin says in lieu of a greeting.  You startle, reeling around to face them.  Even when you're expecting them, they have the uncanny ability of sneaking up on you.

“You say that like you’re surprised.”  You chide, in mock affront.  “You’ll notice that I’m also on time.”  Your giddiness shows on your face, a smile tugging at your lips.

“Don’t act so pleased with yourself,” they snipe while rolling their eyes, “for anyone else, that’s the bare minimum.”  They frown, looking you up and down with their arms tightly crossed. “...Is that what you’re wearing?”

Any further quips you have for them die in your mouth, drowned out by nervous chuckling.  You realize they must be asking (in their own way) if you’re not going to get too cold.  You know you could just ask Leander or Kuras for some seasonally appropriate attire but you’d rather not rely on further charity if you can’t help it.  Hence: “I’m, um, warm blooded?”  You mean to inject an appropriate amount of bravado into your voice, but it comes out as more of a question.

Mhin sighs, long eyelashes brushing their cheeks as they close their eyes for one long moment.   “Sometimes I wonder…  Fine.  Let’s just get going.”

The floorboards shriek beneath your feet as you step across the threshold.  The entire shack seems to groan and sway, protesting audibly against the wind.  You stick close to Mhin’s back as they hold their gas lamp up, casting an eerie glow about the interior of the abandoned building.  Their keen eyes do a quick sweep before they nod decisively and usher you inside with a single precise motion.

The bellow of the wind sounds almost like a scream as the door shuts behind you.

“So, what are we looking for, exactly?”  Your voice comes out hushed, the haunting atmosphere insisting that you behave accordingly.

“Likely nothing.”  Mhin responds.  “Actual ghost sightings are very rare.  And of those, few recorded instances come from trustworthy sources.  People in Eridia can be quite superstitious.  Count on rats or other pests.  It’s more plausible that this is a mere infestation rather than–”

The roof above your heads gives a long, low creeaaaak.

You both pause for a beat, listening to silence.

“How would we know if it's a real ghost?”  You ask, more out of curiosity than anything.  You’re not about to waste the opportunity, if Mhin is willing to keep talking.

“Depends on the type of ghost.”  Another protest from the floorboards as Mhin wanders further into the dark.  Since you don’t have a lantern of your own, you have no choice but to follow close behind.  Unless you want to stumble around with nothing but the shatters of dusty moonlight cast through the cracked windows to guide your way.

Mhin and you make a quick round of the small building, finding it mostly empty, only a few pieces of broken furniture left behind.  You draw closer to the back wall, carefully avoiding moth-eaten curtains, heeding Mhin’s warning about a small step.  Based on the layout, you think this place might have been a bar or entertainment hall of some sort.  You imagine it had a nice, cozy parlor at one time, though now it’s fallen into squalor.  As Mhin examines the walls for signs of pests and other clues, you examine the graffiti strewn across them: crude jokes and lewd drawings, mostly.  Some scattered names, belonging to people and gangs you’ve never heard of before.  

Framed in the center, though, there's a huge riot of colorful paint.  An abstract painting with no proper canvas.  It's beautiful, somehow, though hauntingly morose.  The artist has contained their work in a neat square, not a single streak of color escaping the precisely imposed prison.  You’re not sure what the intent of the artist was choosing somewhere like this to display it…  

“Is there a type of ghost that makes artwork?”  You wonder aloud.  You almost wish that Mhin would hand you the lantern so you can get a better look.

Mhin clicks their tongue, sparing barely a glance toward the makeshift painting.  “I wouldn't define that as art.”  Mhin follows the line of the wall to the corner, their lantern held up to the wall.  “That’s just…paint.  If you’re looking for ghosts, try looking for scratch marks.  Those are a possible indicator, though not always a reliable one.  A sudden feeling of hot, or cold–any otherwise unexplainable temperature change.  A strange odor…”

You give the air a sniff.  “...I don’t smell anything.  Do you?”

“Dust.  Rotting wood.  And you’ve stopped using Leander’s bath soaps, which I’ll commend you for.  Why anybody would want to smell that strongly of–”  Mhin stops and gives a short whiff, their mouth slightly parted.  Their brows furrow. “It is unusual…I don't see or smell any signs of rats or roaches.  No vultures either…”

“Maybe something else scared them away?”  You posit.  You shuffle closer to Mhin, not liking the way the shadows around you seem to flow and ebb the longer you look at them, your mind making up shapes.  There’s a silly part of you that wants to feel Mhin’s cloak between your bandaged fingers as reassurance that they’ll stay close.  They’d probably hate to know that you see them as something to cling to–a source of comfort, safety.

You try to take another step closer to further dampen your trepidation, but instead you trip over– something–and stumble directly into Mhin.  They catch you on impulse, strong and quick enough to steady you with one arm while holding the lantern with the other.  You breathe an apology, your lips bumping against their chin as they help you get your feet back under you.  

You both search the ground to determine what knocked you off your balance.

It's a dirty old rug, rucked up at one edge.  

A long line of what appears to be claw marks lies half uncovered below it.  Mhin kneels beside the marks, studying them intently, carefully moving the rug to reveal yet more splintered wood.  “I’m not sure what could have done this,” they admit.  “The marks are fresh, but none of the dust was disrupted…”

The floorboards groan another protest, though it bounds off the walls in strange ways, making it difficult to pinpoint exactly where the sound originated.

“Aural contortions.”  Mhin announces.  “And a feeling that you’re being watched.  Reflective surfaces will behave oddly as well.  Hold this.”  Mhin hands you the lantern (more: shoves it into your grasp, really) reaching into their satchel.  Their nimble hands pull out a handful of alchemical concoctions, one which shines like the inside of a seashell, a tiny silver locket, which they flick open to reveal a small mirror.  There’s symbols etched into it, so old and worn away you can’t make them out.

You draw the lantern closer at their behest, illuminating a small smile spread across their face.

Is Mhin …Having fun?

“Is there anything I can do to help?”  You ask, hoping they don’t notice the warmth in your voice. Getting scolded would kind of ruin the mood.

Mhin glances up, blinking at you like they almost forgot you were there.  Their tongue peeks out, wetting their lips as they consider.  “Yes,” they finally agree, “would you–”

The lamplight is smothered by an unknown force.

The cracked streams of light from the window are gone, leaving you in darkness.

Mhin swears, their voice distorting as if they are suddenly very far away.  A moment ago they were crouched beside you, but the shadows surrounding you are so inky you can’t make out their silhouette at all.  Instinctively, you reach your hands out in front of you before freezing and reluctantly forcing them back down.  If both you and Mhin end up stumbling around with hands outstretched, there’s a possibility that they might accidentally grasp onto you and disrupt your bandages.  (You wish you had given into your desire to hold onto them earlier.)  

You whisper their name, frantic, hoping they can hear you.

“I’m here,” Mhin assures you, their voice pitched low and cautious.  You feel the gentle press of a foot against yours, a light tap of reassurance against the side of your sole.  “Stay close.”  There’s a brush of fingertips against your back.  “If the entity is particularly powerful, it will be able to move objects,” Mhin cautions, “but a ghost should never be capable of causing harm to humans directly.  And there’s not much in here that it could throw.  Just stay calm.  If you don’t keep your emotions in check, it will only be more incensed.”

Light flashes through the room again in a spotlight, guiding your gaze to a particular area of the building.

The abstract mural is defaced, dripping black liquid splattered boldly across the wall like arterial spray.  You retreat a step, feeling something wet beneath your feet.  There’s a sharp, astringent tang in the air.  Musty and earthy-floral.  Old velvet and leather, parchment and fresh paint.

You realize, with a sinking feeling of cold terror, that the black ichor on the wall spells your name.

    Eyes on you.  

Touch like a gossamer spider web.  Brushing against the nape of your neck.

“Mhin,” you whisper urgently.  “Something just–”  

The cold hits you then.  Bone deep and all consuming.  Judging by the way Mhin swears, they must feel it too.  Whatever this unknown entity is, it’s close.  And it wants…

Shadow flickers, fingers reaching for you, claws grasping, white glint of teeth.

Mhin sneers audibly, reaching for you and reeling you in by your cloak just before the figure can snatch you up.  Their arm wraps around you, guiding you with them as they recede.  They sweep their stiletto in a wide arc and you hear the clang of metal on metal, though you have no idea what it was that Mhin hit.  Their night vision must be immaculate–you can hardly see more than the fresh glint of their stiletto blade.

“Turns out it is a vermin infestation.”

A bark of laughter.  

Very familiar laughter.

The door starts to rattle on its hinges, moving to the rhythm of Vere's glee.  Mhin walks over to it, dragging your shaking body with them.  With a definitive kick from Mhin and a final cackle from Vere, the door bursts open.

Mhin tugs you out into the open air and slams it behind them.

“Awful fur-bag.”  Mhin spits the words out like the mere thought of Vere leaves a bad taste in their mouth.

You’re far enough away that the black paint clinging to both of your shoes is no longer leaving footprints, but you can’t say the same about the bone deep cold.

You’re shivering so hard your teeth start to chatter, adrenaline magnifying the chill in your bones.  How did Vere even do that?  You rub your arms and nearly stumble into Mhin in the process.  Their features twist into a half-formed scowl, eyes sweeping you before softening into something more delicate.

You find yourself staring into eyes that seem to catch the moonlight, words caught in your throat.

“You’re freezing.” Mhin murmurs, resting a hand against the curve of your cheek, testing your temperature.

You’re surprised at the contact.  Mhin is always so careful about touching you–it’s something you appreciate, usually, this unspoken agreement between the two of you; Mhin doesn’t ask intrusive questions, just makes silent hypotheses and treats your personal space with care.  You appreciate it–usually–but sometimes, (constantly), you wish…

Mhin’s thumb pets against your jaw.  They glace away from you as they do, unable to hold your gaze, but they don’t remove their hand, even as the moment hangs heavy in the air.  Their hand is soft, you think, fingertips like silk, though you can feel the thick calluses built up at the meat of their palm.  Likely hard won and harder lost, trophies from their time as a freelancer and whatever secret misfortune befell them what led them to Eridia.  Unthinking, you nuzzle into their touch, luxuriating in the coveted feeling of skin on skin.  You have half a mind to turn your head, press your lips against their calluses, kiss them like you’re drawing poison from a wound.

Mhin catches your chin between their thumb and pointer finger.  Their grip is assertive, certain.  You’d worry that you’ve angered them somehow, but the intensity of their gaze, the subtle tilt of their head, the flush of their cheeks, the featherlight caress of their breath on your lips…

–You think they might–

They back away abruptly in one smooth stride.  Their hands work quickly at the intricate clasp on their cloak.  Oh, now they’re really looking away.

“Wear this while we head back.  You didn’t come to this city to die of cold.”

They look at their bracers pointedly as you hesitate, as if itching to adjust them.  You slowly reach out and put the garment on.

The trek back to the Wick is uneventful.  The occasional star glances out from the pall of clouds constantly lingering in the Eridian sky.  You look for the waning moon, finding its reticent light and following it home.  You return Mhin’s cloak at the door, careful to hold it in a way that allows them to take it without having to touch you – touch your bandages.  

Mhin looks, oddly, a little reluctant to see it returned.  You’re not sure how else you can possibly read their body language.  Their hunched shoulders, the downturn of their mouth, their uncharacteristic lingering.  Holding the cloak in their hands like they can’t quite decide what to think of it.

They let out a sharp breath.

Mhin levels you with a pointed glare as they settle their mantle across their shoulders, affixing the clasp without need to look down.  “Buy some warmer clothes.” they order, “Tell Leander that the contract is complete and the buyer’s ‘ghost problem’ is solved.  The building should be fine for renovations, just tell them to start their renewal project on a day when the Senobium is actually holding Vere’s leash.”

  “You’ll come back for your cut tomorrow…?”  Confusion rolls off your lips.

“No.”  Mhin crosses their arms again.  “I just told you to buy some warmer clothes, didn’t I?  Consider it hazard pay.”  Again, that disgusted tone Mhin reserves for Vere.  “Even with that taken into consideration, you’ll still owe me, though.  Don’t forget.  I’ll collect some day; everyone does in this city.”

You’re not sure what to say.  Mhin is insisting that this is just a loan, and you believe that wholeheartedly.  But that doesn’t mean it isn’t charity.  Mhin’s also offering you transparency–an open disclosure of the deal you’re agreeing to.  You take their cut, buy what you need, and resolve to pay it back when you can.  And if Mhin needs something similar in the future, you’ll return them in kind.  

You think you stumble over your words a little, but you agree to their offer.

“I’ll be back to collect another contract.  Hopefully something that’s not a waste of my time.”

And a promise to come back is a promise to see you again, isn’t it?  To include you in their life?  Is that what you’re supposed to take from this?  That Mhin cares for you, even if they won’t–

  Or is it your foolish heart, showing you a path that isn’t really there?  

“Goodnight, Mhin.”  You say the words, but their back is already turned, steps already taken.

   ✦ EXTENDED ENDING...? ✦

You putter around in your room at the Wet Wick as you go about your nightly routine. The occasional cheer or thud from below only accentuates your nervous energy, punctuating your reluctance to settle down and get into bed. You smooth the covers with your bandaged hands and fluff the pillow before extinguishing the lamplight. You tug the bedding up above your shoulders, fighting to get comfortable. As your eyelids finally start to droop, the flicker of a shadow catches your attention.   It dances and sways and bends and grows until suddenly it is right in front of you.  On top of you. Silken, blood red drips down onto your face, a knife gleam smile too close for comfort.  You breathe in a gasp, wondering if you should scream. “Vere, what–” “Shhh,” he coos, pressing a finger lightly to your lips.  His breath is hot against your skin. “I only came to keep you warm, pet.”

✦Heat Signature (Vere Continuation) ->

[ywpd-translations]

Ride 787: The back that was pushed!!

Pag 1

1: Packed with the passion of everyone in Sohoku... a full throttle injection of will-power!!

Pag 2

1: Iitsuka-san!!

Goo Fukuoka!!

Oh, Tomaribata!!

Fukuoka, take the mountain!!

2: What about Hakogaku's Manami!?

3: Don't worry about him. He did catch up to me but then suddenly stopped

When I shouted at him, he closed his eyes and fell silent!!

4: Is it because he found out that Iitsuka-san is Fukuoka Josei's “mountain shogun”?

Yeah, probably!!

Amazing!!

5: Let's take the lead now!!

Ahead there's also Fujiwara-san from the Kyuushu team Kumadai!!

6: But anyway for a moment I was so scared....

Pag 3

1: When Hakogaku sent ahead their ace Manami!!

2: I can hear it

4: The first day's mountain prize!! Let's take it, at our hometown's Inter High!!

5: Wait....!!

6: “The sound of wheels”? “He's catching up”?

Could it be that Manami is waiting for someone?

Pag 4

1: And that's why he slowed down....!?

2: Raise your pace, Tomaribata!!

4: We're still at the start of the mountain, if we use up our legs here....

It's fine, we'll establish a good distance now

Huh!? But

Think, idiot!! If you think about it, you'll get it!! The person Manami slowed his legs down to wait for....

Pag 5

1: It's Sohoku's “Mountain King”!!

Pag 8

1: Mountain King!!

2: Fo-fo-for the first day's mountain!?

Why even the Mountain King, even the Mountain King!!

I don't know!! I don't know but that doesn't change the reality!!

3: Last year so many times we couldn't race each other

So I thought that maybe this year too...

4: What do I do if he doesn't come, I thought....

5: I was scared

6: For a while I couldn't even open my eyes

Pag 9

2: I caught up

4: Thank god it's real!!

Pag 10

1: You came, Sakamichi-kun

Yeah!! Manami-kun!!

Pag 11

1: Can we race?

2: Yes!!

Pag 12

3: Everyone in the team pushed my back!!

Pag 13

1: Onoda-kun!!

2: He should have caught up with Manami around now!!

3: Onoda-san!!

4: Hahaha!!

5: Back-gate slope-senpai!!

6: At full throttle!!

At full throttle!!

Run!!

Please run!!

Pag 14

1: Nghh...!!

2: “Nghhh” it's right!!

3: Ahaha

Hahaha

They're suddenly laughing, let's raise our pace!!

Yes!!

4: It was during your training camp on our first year

5: When we raced for the first time

6: I remember I was so excited when I heard that our names were “Sakamichi” and “Sangaku”

It's the perfect combo!!

Pag 15

1: I was surprised you didn't even have your feet fastening on

We stopped at the summer house and talked

2: We were so free back then!!

We didn't have any responsibility, not teams nor jerseys!!

3: Ahaha

4: When you're in second and third year the things you have to do increases so much....

5: I'd throw this “captain” title away anytime!!

Hahaha I get it, it's difficult for me too

Pag 16

1: If someone on my team heard that they would get angry

Doubashi-kun especially would get angry!!

Sounds scary...

4: You're wearing the number “3”

Ah, yeah, uhm, we talked with everyone on the team

Huh.... on official races the winner of the previous year should wear the number “1”

5: I see, leave it to me then

I'll push through, hahaha!!

Thank you!!

Is.. is that alright?

Waa, Pierre-sensei is so reliable!!

6: Your teacher....!!

Then...

7: Yeah, “3” like Makishima-san's “173”

Pag 17

1: I'm also wearing Toudou-san's number “13”

2: “Sleeping beauty”!!

Kuah!! Toudou!!

Pag 18

1: That day, the first day of the Inter High two years ago

2: While we were pulling the team, I imagined those two fighting for the mountain prize....

3: I'm sure they must be having fun

Fighting until you're empty

It can't not be fun!!

4: We can't go right now, but let's do it

A fight until the last drop, until our limits!!

Yeah!!

5: We promised to race

Today may be the day to truly make that wish....

Pag 19

1: come true!!

Pag 20

1: Our third year, the last Inter High

2: The first day.... a fight to compete only for the colored bib

3: The purity of this race is infinitely high!!

4: Yeah!!

Pag 21

5: Let's do it, Manami-kun!!

Pag 22

2: I've been waiting to hear those words!!

[ninyard]

hello I would like the kevallison smut ?? Please

The promised kevallison headcanons (aka how the two of them figure out what the other person is into + how they might go about doing it)

When they start hooking up it’s all pretty standard stuff. Allison gets him off after a game. Kevin eats her out if there’s ten minutes free in between classes and an empty dorm room. They’re a booty call before, during or after a night out, or a no-strings-attached way to get some frustration off their chest. Their friends-with-benefits situation is more often than not just a quick fuck when they’re bored. But it's kind of just… that? It's just fucking. It's a handful of different positions, in a handful of different places, but nothing more than fucking, finishing, and leaving. They don’t feel a need to bring it any further though, in some ways hesitant that the other will catch feelings if it gets too intimate. But from the get-go their agreement is clear - if either starts to get attached, or jealous, or even thinks that it might be worth pursuing, they stop. It doesn’t happen, of course, but in the beginning they really try to err on the side of caution until they know that for certain.

There’s one of two ways that their casual hook ups becomes more... interesting every now and again: one) accidentally. two) intentionally.

If it is accidental, I think they stumble upon the other’s kinks by the Grace of God. It's a quick fuck that turns into something more because one of them picks up on how the other's demeanor changes and they realise oh. oh. That did something for them. The moment when it happens is so intoxicating and sexually charged; So intense at the realisation of how turned on the other person is, that they’re just waiting for someone in the dorm room over, or outside the bathroom at a party, or in the almost-empty parking lot to ask did anyone hear Allison and Kevin fucking last night? For either of them, single and used to quick fucks with strangers that don't mean anything nor have the longevity for experimenting with, getting to dip into their fantasies is unparalleled pleasure.

If it’s accidental, it’s a pleasant surprise for them both, and Kevin and Allison have that in common - they are both incredibly, heavily turned on by their fuck-buddies feeling satisfied. It happens, where sometimes Kevin just wants to be blown without returning the gesture, or where Allison wants to come without having to put in the effort it takes to give back. More often than not, though, whether it be with each other or with other people, they're most satisfied when the other person is satisfied, too. So when the topic of kinks and turn ons is broached, or accidentally revealed, it doesn't matter that it's Kevin, or that it's Allison. When they've been fucking for long enough that they find themselves discovering these things, they're comfortable enough with each other to not feel embarrassed about what happens when they have sex. If it makes her wet, and it keeps him hard, then it doesn't matter. They don't talk about their sex lives outside of when or where it happens - a kink or two isn't going to change that.

For Kevin, sweet submissive baby boy who just lives to be praised - oh, when Allison finds out, it opens this door for changing their dynamics that she hadn't even realised existed. Kevin gets so turned on that he practically melts, and Allison eats it up like it's the hottest thing she's ever laid eyes on.

They've found themselves standing up against a wall in a bathroom at a party somewhere, too many suggestive looks across the room leading to a desperately desired handjob or two, and Kevin is fumbling with the buckle of his belt. He struggles with it for a second, before pulling the black leather out from it's square frame and Allison offhandedly says good job with a laugh as she trails kisses up his neck and her fingers down his stomach. She feels his reaction to her words before she notices how his eyes glaze over with the thoughts in his head; how he stills at her words, how he's yearning through his sigh when she follows with a knowing whisper of oh, you want me to tell you how good you're being?

Him in her hand, the long acrylic nails of her free hand dragging lines down his neck, Allison feels how needy he is and softly purrs in his ear to tell her how much he wants it. It's not lost on him how she plays with him like putty between her tender fingers, but still he looks into her eyes with his eyebrows knitted into each other, too close to argue; The please that escapes his lips trapped in between a gasp and a moan is rebutted with her sultry say it again. I want to hear that pretty voice beg. It takes the stalling of the rhythm in her working hand before he finds the ability to whimper out his desperate please, please, please. She's using her free hand to hold his face still, their eyes locked together, while he can barely keep himself in one piece. Her thumb is soft over his lips, brushing over little gasps and short breaths, holding him while she whispers a question and he falls apart in her hands.

If Kevin loves to be topped by strong women, Allison loves to hear a man moan. And she’s never heard him like this before, his lips drawn apart just inches from hers, one hand steadying himself against the wall and the other tugging and pawing at the skin of the small of her back. She doesn't let him look away as she guides him to climax with her soft words of gentle praise. How pretty he looks when he's trying his hardest to be quiet, how well he's doing at keeping himself composed.

Allsion doesn't care that she's accidentally unlocked this submissive side of Kevin; firstly, he's hot as hell when he's this desperate, and it's not as if she's going to be leaving that bathroom and calling him a good boy on the court, because that's not how this works. She's fucked him angry and she's fucked him needy - the passion of fulfilled fantasy only working on a different level to anything else.

(When he's caught his breath and started to clean himself up, she washes her hands and admires her work; his rosy cheeks burning up as she watches him in the mirror. She pushes herself up onto the vanity, and when he can finally bare to look at her again, she says I'm proud of you with a playful smile. Kevin covers his face to laugh in semi-embarrassment, his head shaking as he finds himself in between her legs. They don't talk about it too much before he returns the favour.)

Then there's, Allison, sweet Allison, who's interests work in harmony like a perfect composed song. We knows she loves to hear the men she sleeps with, but there's two things that really get her going that more often than not go hand in hand - rough sex, and loud sex. Living in dorms, it's hard to indulge, especially the second, but usually she'll just pull him close, with his lips to her ear or hers to his. Allison gets off on hearing the person she's fucking, and Kevin is not an exception to that.

They've somehow had a stroke of luck - an empty house in Columbia and some time to kill. Kevin is on the edge of the bed, and Allison is facing Kevin while sitting on his lap, her knees resting on either side of him, in a skirt that is already so short that it's barely even there. They're making out, and Kevin isn't really thinking, but he slaps her ass - something he'd done once or twice before, but never that hard, never that loud. Allison sits back, hands on his shoulders with her mouth open wide. She doesn't get the chance to finish her questioning what are you doing? Before his mischievous smile curls around, what, this? as he laughs and does it again. When she stands up off of him in a half-protest, shaking her finger at how close he was getting to really getting her going, he follows her up. He stands in front of her with feigned apologies for his boldness. She leans into his kiss, with arms wrapped tight around her waist, but instead of pouting his lips, he picks her up and throws her back onto the bed while she scream-laughs.

Body over body, on top of her then, a hand finds it's way in between strands of shiny blonde. A hand that she takes into hers, guiding his fist to grasp a handful of her hair. When he doesn't hold it hard enough she tugs it gently, keeping his fist closed with her hand around it. Looking down at her, he purses his lips with an oh that pauses his other hand while it pushes up her skirt to touch her over her panties. Reading him while waiting for the laugh that never comes is agonisingly long, as she braces herself for the mortifying conversation that he was not going to be entertaining it. Instead he waits for her hand to trail away before pulling her head, hard, back into the bed. And when she shuts her eyes and parts her lips in pleasure, he is quick to bring his hand up to her chin, tilting her head back. The two smallest of his fingers fingers tuck themselves neatly behind her ear, the other two tight between her jawline and her cheekbone. The ball of his thumb is resting on her chin. She doesn't stop him when his thumb trails down from her cupid's bow and into her mouth. She doesn't stop him when he takes it out hold it around her throat, either. Kevin is careful to scatter wet bruises down her chest where they won't be seen. When he's standing back to take off his pants and she’s lifting her top over her head, he asks, you want it hard? and she responds do you even fucking have to ask?

Her skirt is up over her hips and her thong down her thighs. He’s on his knees with her legs over his thighs, maybe he’s pinning her hands down above her head with one big hand over her little wrists. Headboard banging, unrestrained volume, handprints on ass cheeks and scratches across spines. Allison gets sex-drunk when he manhandles her. It’s sloppy, it’s messy, it’s loud, it’s so hot that it’s on fire. It’s eye-rolling, being in a daze afterwards type of fucking. It’s mascara running down cheeks, how the fuck am I supposed to look anyone in the eye after having that done to me type of fucking. It’s needing to have a shower immediately afterwards type of sweaty, messy fucking.

(It’s probably one of the only times they almost/kind of get caught. Not because of the noise, or the sex itself but because of the aftermath. Andrew and Neil clock INSTANTLY the missing and changed details when they regroup - how Kevin’s hair is freshly washed, how Allison has taken her heavy makeup off leaving only a fresh coat of mascara and some lipgloss remaining. How they can barely look at each other in case it reminds them of what has just happened. Their puffy lips, their general daze. Yeah, they fly a little too close to the sun that time - not enough time afterwards to recuperate from an absolutely dirty, filthy, fucking.)

If it's an intentional thing, a discussion about what they're into, and they know before getting into it/it's a conscious choice/it's intentional/some sort of discussion/WHATEVER? There's a few ways I could potentially see it possibly coming up.

A game of Never Have I Ever or some other drinking game with the group and the discussions of kinks come up; Kevin drinks when somebody mentions a praise kink, or being dominated. Allison drinks when somebody mentions liking it rough. Their looks to each other are quick but knowing, Kevin's raised eyebrows when Allison drinks to say she doesn't mind being degraded, the flick of her eyes when he drinks to say he doesn't mind begging for it.

They don't hang around after hooking up, usually. Clean up, get dressed, and leave. That's the routine. But they're talking afterwards for a little while, and the subject of fantasies comes up, and while shes fixing her makeup and tying up her hair she asks him what's the one thing he'd go crazy for. he considers it for a little bit but then gets embarrassed because it's a way harder thing to talk about when you're not actively turned on or drunk. They offer each other tiny pieces as they joke about it, starting tame before they eventually just say it out straight. (she calls him princess when she's leaving and he calls her a slut before she shuts the door.)

They ask each other outright. Kinda similar to accidentally figuring it out but they ask each other for it instead of the other person just doing something and stumbling upon it. Maybe Kevin asks her to tell him how good he feels and she asks why, are you into that? and they like. talk through it . Do you like it when I ask you this? Can I call you this? Do you like it when I tell you you're doing such a good job? Talking through sex can be so hot and even hearing the questions out loud sets the imagination off on a fucking marathon. Maybe Allison asks can you choke me? and he asks her how she likes it before agreeing. Do you like it when I hold you like this? Do you want me to spit in your mouth? Do you want to shut the fuck up and listen to what you do to me? It's a much more thorough discussion than them simply going oh, i think the other person has [blank] kink, so i'm just gonna go ahead and do that. It's a request, instead. Both of them knowing what they want and knowing how to ask for it? Yeaaaahhhh

[shootingstarpilot]

okay listen. listen. i'm sorry, i had to get this out of my head, it's been haunting me and i want to get back to working on the next proper chapter-

the mimic lives au.

mimic is brought into the fold without question, of course. and needle- oh, needle's borne witness to the nightmares that force helix awake, shaking-not-screaming, and he knows enough-

so he makes mimic a voice.

it takes him just over a week to record the entire gbs dictionary. he breaks it down, keeps it alphabetical so it's easier to find the words. dictionaries of other languages are on the list. needle thinks maybe mimic can pick and choose which ones to prioritize later. they'll have time.

(they'll have time, isn't that a novel thought-)

but the dictionary is only part of it. there are plenty of manufactured voices out there already, after all.

the datapad becomes needle's newest conversational partner. he sets it up when he's on his own and lets his train of thought derail. spinning out stories both real and fantastical. drawing out threads until they reach the boiling point of absurdity and send him into a fit of giggles. he repeats the stories he'd told mimic just that afternoon, tells him about the jedi, about the temple, about making their own home. then he remembers what helix had said about mimic wanting to be a pilot, and goes and bullies comet into educating him on starfighters. he recites his lessons to the camera each evening in the moments of stolen solitude he can squirrel away before one of the others comes looking for him.

"it's like learning another language," he says, and wags a finger at the camera. "you're welcome."

needle gifts it to mimic a week after they arrive at the temple with a wireless earpiece to match. no pressure, of course, he says, grinning, just thought it could be a good resource to have, words to borrow at your fingertips, but i know i'm only tolerable in small doses, so-

he squawks when mimic's hug lifts him clear off the ground.

anyway. so. you see my vision.

helix jumps a mile when he first hears needle's laugh in mimic's mouth. stitch yells at needle for a bit about talking so much, needle, is this why your voice was so hoarse- and then restricts him to tea for four days until he's sure his throat has healed. sometimes it's too much, and mimic will stick his earpiece to the fridge and borrow words spoken right in front of him until his brain stops buzzing-

but it works. they work.

and then.

it's a few months in. they're comfortable. they're setting down roots.

then one night needle doesn't come home.

helix doesn't wait to raise the alarm. needle doesn't spend every night home, but he's good about comming when he'll be staying elsewhere. he knows helix is struggling with letting them leave his line of sight.

and now he's gone. and he didn't comm.

the first three days stretch into a week.

then a second week.

then a month.

and now, the vision that has been HAUNTING ME-

helix, clutching mimic's datapad, sitting on the edge of his bed.

the lights are low. his eyes are red.

he hits play.

"-ah, i love them," needle says, laughing. the laugh stretches into a yawn-

(that holds for one, two, three seconds, helix knows it now by heart-)

a knock at the door sounds in the video. needle hunches his shoulders, grimacing- his eyes are dancing, he's not annoyed, not really-

"be right out!" he calls, and then- helix's voice on the other side-

"get your beauty routine under control!"

needle waits until his footsteps have vanished before turning back to the camera-

(six footsteps before they fade enough to become inaudible- helix has counted them so many times-)

"i don't need one," he says, and winks at the camera- his eyes are shining, bright and happy- "he's just jealous all of this is effortless. night, mimic. talk to you in the morning."

the video ends.

helix sits in the dark.

after a moment, he taps at the datapad again.

"ah, i love them," needle says. his laugh- snorting, open, happy-

(one-two-three for the yawn-)

helix hits pause. rewinds.

"i love them," needle says.

pause. rewind.

"i love them."

pause. rewind.

"i love them."

pause. rewind.

"i love them."

"i love them."

"i love them."

[doverstar]

actually I love Tentoo and he is the Doctor and it was the only ending for Rose that worked and it is a huge gift to be able to have the man she loves grow old with her, they were always heading for that, y'all be quiet. I 100% understand the angst but it's okay, they're okay, good ending-

[loganslowdown4]

Roman: You’re going to do fine with this big presentation, Specs.

Logan: *stressed out* You’re only saying that because you love me. Love has made you dumb.

Roman: On the contrary, I think being in love with you has made me smarter than ever. Remember last week when I boiled that egg?

Logan: That was big. I was really proud of you.

@loginceweek2024

[r0setyler]

i believe that shipping tentoo/rose and recognizing that the way it happened was fucked on the doctor's end and traumatic on the end of rose herself can coexist. saying both of these things do not contradict each other.

i can say that the metacrisis is still the doctor and say that rose was right at first to say "he's not you," because of the context rose has in the moment and the work rose had put into finding the doctor that she conceptualized as the doctor.

i can also say that he tried to manipulate her into choosing the metacrisis because that is what he believed was best for her, even though i can also say she did choose to kiss the metacrisis in her own right.

and finally, i can say, that it was fucked up he left her in norway, solely because, bro, that's a long way away from where they need to go lol.

[pink-tk-a-latte]

if you could sit in a barrel, maybe

[sfw tickle fic!! possible claustrophobia. lee!venti, ler!lumine]

࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ༄ ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ༄ ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ༄

“Well… this is troublesome.”

Lumine hissed as she squeezed Venti closer to her. “You’re the one who got us here.” Venti laughed, breathless as the Traveler choked him.

The wooden walls of the barrel did nothing to muffle the heavy footsteps shaking the tavern floor. Lumine’s ears could pick up the clinking of chains on the suit of the tavernkeeper (Diluc, because of course it was Diluc). The air was stuffy, it smelled sour, and, as hard as she blinked, Lumine could see nothing but darkness and the not-even-guilty outline of Venti’s face squished against his braids.

“Aw, don’t be mad, my dear. I just wanted some birthday wine! However could we celebrate without wine?” Venti whispered pitifully, head cradled in Lumine’s lap. His feet scuffed on the side of the barrel — she felt her lungs still.

Every noise was like a firecracker in this suffocating, pitch-black space. At each incensed footfall outside and each too-sharp breath or shuffle within the curved planks, Lumine’s arms stiffened around the bard in her hold. If only I could be silent enough for the both of us.

Venti kicked his leg again, twitching with excited energy. Lumine’s heart rocketed. The steps on the floorboards had stopped. She stuck her hands under Venti’s arms and tugged him close.

Then his entire body flinched, a squeak shooting out of his mouth. Lumine clenched her teeth as the barrel shook.

“Venti!”

“Sorry!” Venti wriggled as much as he could, the tiniest wispy giggles sprouting from his lips. “Wahaha— Your hahands!”

Lumine sighed. A twitchy smile pulled at her cheeks. “Oh, Ven. Just try to be quiet.”

Mute, Lumine scribbled under Venti’s arms. She chuckled softly at his nervous choke.

“Lu- Luhumihine! AHaha- NaHAhat now! Stop t- tihihi— Stahap thahahat!”

“What? Tickling you?” Lumine grinned as Venti quivered and whined in a flustered flurry. She dragged her fingers between his upper ribs, teasing at the edge of his dancing corset.

“EHee yehehehes! Stop tihihicklihing!”

“Stop being so ticklish then.” In this moment of warmth and giddy suspense, Lumine forgot all need for stealth. There was something thrilling about breaking the rules, toeing the line and trying not to get caught.

Lumine traced the hems of Venti’s dress shirt, scratching up his forearms and around his underarms. Hysterical, he squealed into her clothes and squirmed. Lumine could feel the vibrations of his lyre-sweet laughter running through her abdomen (and she tried to pretend it didn’t affect her in a giggly way at all).

“EEHE! Dihiluhuhuc will hehehehear!” Venti pleaded. “He’ll be sohoho mahaHAhad!”

Now you’re worried? “Well, maybe you deserve it.” With a huff, Lumine patted down his torso, searching for his hips. “This was all your idea anyway, you little wiggleworm.” Ah, bingo. She slipped her fingers into the hole in Venti’s shorts, tracing circles into soft, sensitive skin where his shirt had ridden up.

All the while, Venti was gnawing on his braids to muffle himself, a wail leaping from the back of his throat when she made it to his hips. He’d jerked so far forward that Lumine had sunk farther onto her back somehow, and Venti was now crushing her chest.

“LUHUmihihi pleheheHEASE! Nah nohohot thehehere! I cahahan’t, Ihihi’m—!” Desperately, Venti twisted his hips and shook his head, braids whipping about, glowing. Oh, they were glowing a lot, actually. Almost as if—

The barrel exploded.

Lumine lay surrounded by the splintered remains of their hiding spot — unharmed, but winded (ha) by the burst of Anemo. Venti was collapsed on her chest, where he panted and rubbed at his apple-red cheeks.

Grimacing as her legs twinged with pins and needles, Lumine propped Venti up by his shoulders to examine his face. “You okay?” she asked, still supine on the floor.

Venti nodded, loopy. “Only hurt that you would be so mean to me. And on my birthday?” He pouted and almost tumbled onto her again.

A snicker broke out of Lumine’s chest. Then it snowballed into bubbling laughter that shook her entire torso. Venti too succumbed to mirthful stitches, equally exhilarated from the high of misbehavior.

“Happy birthday to you.” Lumine giggled and patted Venti’s cheek. He met her with a wide, joyous smile.

“Happy birthday indeed, bard,” came a new, much deeper, much more intimidating voice.

Venti and Lumine looked up at the looming shadow, red hair, dark suit, crossed arms and all. Blazing eyes twisted in irritation burned through them.

It seemed Diluc had discovered the mess they’d created.

And they never even made it to the wine…

࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ༄ ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ༄ ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ༄

HAPPY BIRTHDAY VENTI!!!!! 🍏 You’re finally home for your bday pictures after evading my pulls for three years <333